The Phantom of the Opera, Retold
by Kates
Summary: Reposted after some massive editing. The tale of all things Phantom is spun, as seen by the characters themselves. Enter my world, mes amies, with your hand at the level of your eyes and before you go, do please leave me a note.
1. Prologue

Author's note:  Greetings, fellow phans.  It is I – Kates, O.G.'s Scribe, and I have returned with a new, edited and improved (ha!  Hopefully…) version of my retelling of this beautiful tale of love, jealousy, danger, mystery, and truth.  I wasn't quite happy with my earlier version of it, so now after having removed the Phantom of the Opera, Retold, I have changed a few things.  So please, enjoy and tell me what you thought of it.  Just please be kind…

Disclaimer:  I don't own Phantom in any form, except for my ideas presented here on how it should have gone.  The characters, places, and storyline belong to Gaston Leroux, Susan Kay, Mssrs. Yeston/Kopit, and Sir Andrew Llord Webber.  I am merely a devoted phan who wishes to express her love for all things Phantom.  And now, "let the audience in – let my opera begin!"

– Prologue –

It all began as a story.

A simple story, and nothing more.

Only a wraith.    

Little more than a legend, or the vain workings of some young ballet dancer's imagination, the words 'Opera Ghost' made no difference in the minds of those who heard them, inspired no awe or fascination…brought about no fear.  For as long as anyone could remember, the leviathan block of stone, iron, and finery that was known as the Opéra Populaire – Paris's crowning gem, its greatest work and life's obsession – had been only that: a fantastic, cowing structure where the musical works of the world's best composers and choreographers were performed.  A place where the French people, if they could, went to immerse themselves in its beauty and blunt, unafraid, no-holds-barred self-importance.  It had been built, it had been and was used, and it – in all likeliness – would stand in the centuries that even the current generation's children's children's children's children would not see.

And then came the rumor.

The rumor of a dark shape lurking in the blackest shadows of the opera house. 

It first came to light, breathed out of the terrified, almost inaudible whispers of the youngest and most insecure of the ballet chorus girls as they began to tell stories – the stories of a black, ghost-like form seen in the darkness behind the stages.  No one paid attention to them or heeded their desperate pleas for light and safety.

Until one of the wardrobe mistresses saw something.

It had the form of a man, the stories said – tall and entirely cloaked in black, with a pale, terrifying slash of white showing out of a draping hood, like a death's head.  When spoken to, if anyone who saw it dared to do so, the shadowy figure would pause, hearing their words but completely ignoring them as if they were no more than the gentle blustering of the wind outside a glass window.  Then, it would turn its head – if indeed a head it had – and a glint of bright, demonically foreboding yellow would show where the eyes of the creature might have been.  And without a word then, it would be gone.

As if it had never been there, save in spirit only.

As if it was a ghost.

The rumors continued to grow and spread, in spite of the authorities of the Opéra Populaire's attempts to stop them, to restore order and efficiency as practices and performances were becoming interrupted more and more often by sightings of the so-called ghost, the specter…the Phantom.  The stagehands found strange objects, such as ropes, stolen props, ruined backdrops, and other sorts of property belonging to the Opéra in odd places, and articles that the principal and secondary, even background actors had once owned were reported missing.  

And still, the ghost was sighted almost on regular intervals, and everyone in the Opéra Populaire was becoming more and more frightened.  

There was speculation on how it had come, the ghost.  Some people said that it was the spirit of a deceased actor who had been killed in the Opéra's early days by a jealous rival and was therefore doomed to wander the halls of the theater forever.  Others spun tales of a construction worker who had lost himself far below the Opéra's surface and died a horrible death underneath the earth: drowned in the vast lake that everyone knew to exist, even though hardly anyone had seen it.  Then there were intrigues saying that the figure was the owner of another opera house in competition with the Parisian Opéra Populaire, or that it was simply a prankster attempting a stunt to attract the attention of one of the divas with whom he was madly in love.

But whatever the case, no one ever discovered exactly who and what the ghost was, or if it was truly even there…and no one ever caught it.

And so an infamous figure, never to be forgotten, came to be.

The Phantom of the Opera.        


	2. The Beauty, the Voice, and the Promise

Author's note:  And now I present you with the first chapter of my retelling, in which several characters introduce themselves.  This is somewhat my own take on the meeting of Christine Daae and her Angel of Music, although I very much adore the way that Kay's Phantom arranged it.  However, since I desire to be at least fairly original with this, and it is a bit necessary to put it this way, I have slightly altered the scene…

Disclaimer:  *scowls*  No, I don't own Phantom or anyone/anything belonging to it.  The world flaunts this single cruel fact in my face, and much as I would like to Punjab whoever is responsible for this being true, I can't.  And won't.  To commence! 

Chapter One –

The Beauty, the Voice, and the Promise

Paris, 1879.  From the viewpoint of a young ballet dancer…

Backstage, in the strangely attentive, stifling shadows that encompassed the space that ran behind the curtains and the wings, all was silent.  It was a dark, foreboding, and still place: full of inky blackness into which sliced vague hints of what might have been called light, which came from somewhere infinitely far above the floor.  The quiet was almost tangible, so thick that it could almost be cut with a knife. 

And yet, then, suddenly, there came a single sound to break the quiet – the muffled, small sobs of a very young, very lonely girl.  

That girl was me.

I was sitting in a rumpled, limp heap of sorts on the floor in an obscure, black corner: my thick, dark hair streaming, wild and unkempt, over my shoulders, my soft white ballet costume wrinkled.  I sobbed on and on, unheeded.  Perhaps, to most of what we may call 'compassionate' hearts, it might have seemed unfair to leave a child in such a state – alone, with nothing but the darkness to hear her sobs, and nothing but the dust on the floor to catch her tears.  

However, I must explain, for this is an important fact, that the place that I inhabited at the moment was the Paris Opéra Populaire: the crowning, glorious, imposing work of that great architect, Garnier.  

It was a truly awe-inspiring place; being much greater than any other theatre in the world, the Opéra Populaire was something that, once seen, no one ever forgot.  It had been commissioned by royalty, visited by the masses, and was run by virtually every class known to man.  The aristocracy, the merchants, the working class, the peasants – everyone.  It was too gigantic for words to express: having more than a thousand souls employed within its structure.  There were ballrooms in it, huge halls used for conferences of royalty and state, salons, and the cavernous depths of the cellars which reached, with clinging, hard fingers, into the earth, far below the surface.  There was even a _stables within in it, to provide a living quarters for the number of horses – all white, all purebred, all aristocrats in their own way – that were occasionally used in the performances that the opera house put on.  The productions themselves were more than magnanimous, more than dazzling: they were otherworldly, intricate, elaborate, realistic, and exorbitant.  _

The scores of actors, actresses, dancers, stagehands, and others within it were almost too many to count, all scrabbling for better positions and fighting for power.  Of course, with all of this, no one had time for each other, for their families, or friends.  They were only concerned with getting all that they could out of life – "_Allez ou morte!" was the phrase to describe their sort of wanton obsession with the work that they did.  Emotions were things of scarce to no value, compassion was part of the flawed past, and love was almost unheard of.  _

No one could have cared if I lived or died.   __

"I only wanted to sing." I whispered to myself, my breath strangling me, choking in my tightened throat. "I only wanted to sing."

And I started crying again. 

I couldn't see through the haze of my tears.  If my own mother had stood before me, I would have had no way of knowing that she was there.  My emotions were so dulled because of my weeping that I had no sense of anything but the reason why I had been hurt – why I was crying.  

Then, something in the air around me was not right.  The shadows around me were suddenly, _poignantly, alive, and it felt as if the air had just become colder.  Suddenly, a voice came to me, a voice like none that I had ever heard before.  It was a smooth, enticing tenor, icy and cool and yet somehow rich: vibrant and expressive as that of a well-trained actor, cultured to perfection, and incredibly, inescapably, strangely hypnotic.  The voice of a __man.     _

"Why are you crying, _mon petite?"  _

I looked up, startled, breathless and trembling. 

"They wouldn't let me sing."

It was silent for a moment after I had spoken.  I was as still as one of the statues that crowned the theatre's roof, wondering just who and what I was speaking to.  Finally, grimly and seriously, "Oh really?" A pause. "Why not?"

"She_ told them not to." I whispered.         _

"Ah, La Carlotta?" the voice guessed, knowingly.

I nodded, gazing at my hands in my lap.  Silence came into the air again and I remained quiet.  And then, the voice came again.  "Don't worry, little one.  Someday, you _will sing, and no one will stand to bar you then…_no one_.  You will sing and be greater than any other diva that ever lived…and __I will make you so." _

He, whomever he happened to be, was leaving.

"Wait!" I cried.  

But I was alone again.  

I shivered, and then realized that I was not in the darkness alone.  The voice came to me again, and, once again, it was close to me, more reassuring than raindrops pattering on a roof, warmer than the sun's gentle rays, more gentle than a lover's caress.  "You will become a great singer, _mon petite.  I promise you."_

"But how will I know?" I asked, my blue eyes searching the darkness for my strange, invisible protector.

"You will know…for _I shall be there __with you." _

The last vestiges of the voice died away into the darkness and I stood motionless, wondering what and whom I had just seen.  Then, I bit my lip and forced the memory into the back of my mind, to an endless, black space where I would always remember it.  I brushed my skirts back into order and attempted to tidy my mussed, dark hair.

Then I, Christine Daae, ran back to the stage.    

*                       *                       *                       *                       *                       *

As we waited for our instructor to return to the backstage ballet barre, thirteen-year-old Meg Giry and I watched a very Italian, very brassy, and very red-haired Carlotta Guidicelli as she strutted like a vain, self-centered hen across the glossy wooden floorboards of the stage during a full-scale rehearsal.  

Meg made a face: her petite, pretty nose wrinkling, as she commented, "_C'est incroyable comme ânerie runs libérer ici." _

She shook her head. 

"Carlotta Guidicelli – she looks _so ridiculous, __non?  Can you believe that she thinks that she looks good in that get-up?" _

My friend addressed this last to me, and then she turned back to watching the soprano.  I shrugged and replied, carelessly, "I think that she'll think whatever she wants to about herself whether anyone else cares or not."

Meg shot me a look with a raised eyebrow.  

"That meaning?"

I didn't reply – I couldn't.  Instead, I grabbed her arm and pulled her away, saying quickly, "Come along, Meg Giry.  Your mother is going to be back any moment and we'll _both be in trouble if she catches us out here." _

Meg snorted expressively to that as we ran along the backstage hallway, both of us attempting not to trip on our long pointe shoes and said, "My mother thinks that any dreams outside of ballet are useless and futile.  She says that the opera is a waste of time and that it wouldn't be worth _anything without the ballet!"_

I thought about that for a moment.  "Oh really?  Well, perhaps she's right."

My little friend stopped in her tracks, her small mouth making the shape of an O, her jaw dropping dramatically in a show of extreme shock and consternation.  I kept myself from smiling a wicked grin on seeing that my tactic had worked.  "Christine Daae!" Meg reprimanded, as if I was a naughty child and she was my mother.  "How can you say such a thing?  I thought that you _lived_ for singing!" 

At that, I frowned and cocked my head.  "No, I never said that."

"But—"  

"Oh will you come along, you nonsensical child?  We are going to be _late!" With that, I reached out and grabbed hold of Meg's arm once more and, this time, I succeeded in dragging her into the ballet practice area.  _

Fortuitously, we made it to their positions and were gracefully stretching our legs at the barre just as Mme. Giry, Meg's mother and the ballet mistress of the Opéra Populaire, walked in and began the lesson again.  Before the next two hours of grueling practice for the upcoming performance began, I shot Meg a look that told her not to tell anyone where we had been on pain of death.  Meg looked offended, almost hurt, because she knew quite clearly that she wasn't to tell; however, she nodded her agreement.  

And it was thus that the practice went on as our group of young girls who made up the ballet corps filled the spaces around the bar – Mme. Giry beating time on the wooden floorboards with her ebony-handled cane.

But we were being watched.

And I knew it.

*                       *                       *                       *                       *                       *

_In an ornate, beautiful ball gown of pure white, she danced in strange, arching circles in an endless, black space that seemed to be void of gravity.  A candelabrum and a huge, glossy black piano floated near her, but no matter what she did, she could never quite reach it.  Music played from somewhere far-off from her: in a distant quarter, made by hands of a musician that she couldn't see.  _

_Suddenly, the seemingly peaceful, dreamlike scene exploded into a horrible nightmare.  She felt herself dropping out of midair and falling down.  She landed on a floor that hadn't been there before and looked up to see the piano as it came crashing down towards her.  _

_But it wasn't a piano anymore.  _

_It was a chandelier…exactly like the one that hung above the audience's heads in the Opéra Populaire.  _

_She realized almost too late that it was heading directly for her and dived to the side to avoid being crushed.  A split second later, the chandelier crashed onto the ground beside her and the sound of cracking brass and jarred cut-crystals filled the air.  She slowly stood, unable to take her eyes away from it.  Then, she heard a voice.  _

_"Christine!" it called, and it sounded as if it were far-off and weak.  _

_She turned towards it, not knowing where to go but desperate to find its owner, and finally caught sight of a doorway: large, Gothic-shaped, and lit by pale, eerie light.  Without a moment's hesitation, she gathered her skirts, which had suddenly become torn, dirty, chafing, and incredibly heavy, into her hands and ran towards it.  _

_"Erik!" she called, lifting her hand to the side of her mouth so that her voice would carry further.  Her voice sounding muffled and she seemed to move in slow motion, but her slippers made echoing, hollow sounds on the floor.  _

_"Christine!" the voice echoed back to her and this time it sounded even further away.  "Don't leave me!" she cried and kept running.  She sped down the hallway, making turns and following the corridor as if she knew exactly where she was going, but it never seemed to be any shorter.  It was as if she could never reach her destination…and the voice kept on getting further and further away.  _

_Finally, she glimpsed a faint glimmer of light from far down the hallway and ran faster.  Her breath echoed in the silence as she kept on running, desperately, as if she couldn't stop and the ruined, tattered remnants of her gown slithered around her, one of the sleeves slipping down and exposing her shoulder.  She ignored all this.  _

_After what seemed an eternity of running, she finally reached the door and yanked it open.  Her hands bled as if the handle had been made of daggers, but she ignored it and dashed into the golden light before her.  _

_Suddenly, something hit her and she couldn't run any further.  _

_A horrible, mocking laugh filled the space around her and she clapped her hands to her ears to keep the sound out.  It grew stronger and stronger, however, and she couldn't keep herself from hearing.  Overcome, she felt herself dropping to her knees and was unable to stand up again.  _

_"Christine, why didn't you come?" whispered the first voice._

_She tried to reply, but her lips were heavy and she could form the words.  Finally, she forced herself to say, "I tried…I tried, Erik."_

_ And then, everything around her went black and she was plunged into darkness.  _

With a cry, I awoke, gasping raggedly for breath.  

For a moment, the room around me seemed to spin and I quickly held my hands to my head to steady myself.  When it had become still again, I opened my eyes and stared ahead of myself.  Sitting up, I looked around at the familiar surroundings of my boarding house room, and tried to calm the wild beating of my heart; then I gazed at the wall that was across the room from me and began to think…to know…to _remember.  The nightmare that I had just seen __hadn't been the first of its kind.  _

It had begun only a few scant months ago.  

My dream of an urgent, seemingly terrified passage through the dark interior of some forbidden realm had interrupted my sleep with cold, gripping fear for the first time on the night that followed the day in which had come a turning point in my life.

The day when I had been introduced to a strange, invisible protector who had sworn to be mine.

Mine and only mine.

Suddenly restless, I folded the covers of the bed back from myself and stood, rubbing my arms to get my blood to circulate again.  

The last several years of my life had been strange compared to that of other girls.  My father had died, leaving me alone in the world, and I had been taken to Paris from my home in Sweden, my father's home country.  My traveling companions had been Mme. Giry and her daughter Meg, who was my best friend in the world.  Upon our arrival to France, Mme. Giry had agreed to look after me and let me dance with the Opéra Populaire's ballet corps.  I would sew and repair costumes to pay for my room and board.  Mme. Giry would have gladly paid for it herself, but unfortunately, she was _not wealthy and her husband had just died, leaving her and her young daughter without a home and almost penniless, which was why she had come to the Opéra Populaire in the first place.  _

As the years had gone on, I had risen in rank in the ballet corps, along with Meg, and we were soon known as some of the best ballet dancers in the Opéra.  But when I had tried to become part of the chorus – well, it wasn't a memory worth thinking about.  But what had happened immediately _after_ that unfortunate episode…

_That occurrence was still a mystery to me and had yet to be explained.  _

As I gazed out the window, up through the narrow space between the roof of the boarding house that I lived in and the building next to it, I suddenly glimpsed the pale, comforting, pearl-like moon as it shone down upon me.  

I smiled at it.  

For some very odd reason, I had always felt akin to the moon and nighttime.  It was almost more welcoming than the day.  Thinking of the moon, however, reminded me of my dreams.  I shuddered, pulling the curtain closed and shutting out the light from outside.  Then I turned around and folded my arms, feeling the soft warmth of my white cotton nightgown.  

The dreams were always the same.  From the beginning to the end, they always followed the same pattern.  I was continually running down an endless hallway, searching for someone who was calling to me.  And that name.  The name that I had wept myself to sleep over so many times before.

"Erik."

The name surfaced on my lips before I had even time to realize it.  I felt a thrill of strange, unexpected, and almost unnerving excitement and anticipation race up my back, across my scalp, and down the backs of my hands.

"_Erik."_

*                       *                       *                       *                       *

Author's note:  Well, _mes amies_, do you like it?  Hate it?  Please, do let me know of your opinions, which I hold in the greatest respect.  (Just be kind if you don't like it, _s'il vous plait_…)  Also, I know that my French may be a bit flawed – I'm taking it as a second language, but I'm not fluent yet.  If you have any corrections to make as to my errors, please feel free to let me know.  In the meantime, r&r, and the next chapter will arrive soon.


	3. He's here: the Phantom of the Opera

Author's note:  I'm just going to post a whole bunch of chapters from this simply because – if I get any reviews, so be it and I very much appreciate those who do drop me a line or two.  (Thank you, Cat; you are perfectly lovely!  I hope that the part of a certain *revised* character in this will give you a pleasant surprise…)

Disclaimer:  Not mine, I wish they were.  I've just…ahem!…borrowed Erik from Sir Andy – that's it, borrowed him!  And if he likes hanging around my house with me and being the Phantom here, what can I do to stop him?  I have no desire to be Punjab-ed…and it's not exactly the worst fate of all to have such a guy around…  But I digress. 

Chapter Three –

"He's here: the Phantom of the Opera…"

Two years later – Paris 1881: from the viewpoint of an unseen narrator…

_With feasting and dancing and song,_

_Tonight in celebration, _

_we greet the victorious throng,_

_Returned to bring salvation!_

The ballet chorus danced out onto the stage, performing seemingly impossible, curving moves and pirouettes across the floor as Carlotta and her Italian aficionado, Ubaldo Piangi, carried on with their practice of the battle scene in the opera 'Hannibal'.  Nearby, Mme. Giry stood, sharp and commanding as always, beating time with her cane and watching the girls for the slightest mistake.  

And coming onto the stage was the Opéra Populaire's own manager, M. Lefevere.  

Today, unlike other days, two men accompanied him.  One was middle-aged with silver hair, expensive clothing, and a silver monocle twisted in front of his left eye.  The other was a younger man, with short brown hair and sideburns – the latest in the upper circle of men's fashion, from what I had heard.  They were interrupting the practice, which continued, nevertheless, with the actors and dancers on the stage carefully avoiding the trio.  No one could quite tell what the any of the three were saying, but, then again, no one really even _cared.  I listened._

"Signor Ubaldo Piangi, our principal tenor.  He does play _so well opposite la Carlotta," M. Lefevere pointed towards Piangi, who was playing Hannibal himself.  The two men were watching the rehearsal, nodding politely, when suddenly, a female voice called out from behind them.  _

"Gentlemen, _please! If you would kindly move to one side?"  _

Mme. Giry had had enough of the inconveniences that the three men were causing and she banged her cane angrily on the stage to get their attention.  M. Lefevere quickly ushered the two other men and himself out of the way.  "My apologies, Mme. Giry, my apologies." Then, to his companions, he added in a lower tone, explaining, "Madame Giry, our ballet mistress.  I don't mind confessing, M. Firmin, I shan't be sorry to be rid of the whole _blessed business."_

The older man, whom he had addressed as M. Firmin, protested, "I keep asking you, monsieur, why exactly are you retiring?"  

As was obvious, the whole situation didn't seem quite logical to the two gentlemen.  Otherwise, M. Firmin would not have asked such a question.  If the Opéra Populaire was doing as well as Lefevere said, why was he selling it and leaving Paris?

But _I_ knew why.

Lefevere ignored him, calling attention, instead, to the continuing ballet.  "We take _particular pride here in the excellence of our ballets." As he said this, a petite, slim young girl of about fifteen suddenly became prominent among the dancers and the younger man, the one with brown hair and sideburns, gestured to her.  _

"Who's that girl, Lefevere?"

M. Lefevere glanced towards her and replied unconcernedly.  "Oh – her?  Meg Giry, Mme. Giry's daughter.  Most promising dancer, M. André, _most promising."_

Just then, another girl – this one slightly older, alluringly small, and so fair that even the most censorious of critics could not call her anything but incredibly beautiful – became conspicuous from within the ranks of the ballet corps.  She had fallen out of step, seeming distracted.  I watched her with intensity and interest. 

Mme. Giry spotted her and banged her cane again, calling impatiently to her, "You!  Christine Daae!  _Concentrate, girl!"_

The poor, beautiful child started and danced back into step, resuming her correct position.  I heard Meg ask her in a quiet voice that could barely be heard over the music and whirl of the beaded costumes, "Christine…what's the matter?" 

Firmin turned to M. Lefevere, frowning slightly as he said, "Daae?  Curious name." To which Lefevere replied, without taking his eyes away from the ballet, "Swedish." 

Seeming to be suddenly interested in the conversation, the younger man interjected, "Any relation to the violinist?" 

"His daughter, I believe." Lefevere stated, frowning a little.  It was obvious that the young woman was not a favorite among the older members of the staff.  "Always has her head in the clouds, I'm afraid."

The ballet continued to its climax and ended as the dancers scattered to the far corners of the room.  Once they were offstage, the chorus resumed.

_Bid welcome to Hannibal's guests – _

_The elephants of Carthage!_

_As guides on our conquering quests,_

_Dido sends_

_Hannibal's friends!_

An elephant, life-sized but mechanical, was led onto the stage.  Piangi, still playing his part of Hannibal, was lifted with some slight difficulty onto its back.  Carlotta, who was playing the part of Elissa, Hannibal's fair but ill-fated lover, began her solo center stage and belted out her song as only she could.  I grimaced.  

_Once more to my_

_Welcoming arms,_

_My love returns_

_In splendor!_

After a few more minutes of song, the chorus – _and Carlotta – was finished.  Lefevere strode forward, clapping his hands for silence as the elephant was pulled off the stage, revealing the two stagehands that operated it from within.  _

"Ladies and gentlemen – ladies and gentlemen," he began, "May I have your attention _please_?" That being gained, he stood center stage and addressed them all. "As you know, for some weeks there have been rumours of my imminent retirement.  I can now tell you that all these were true, and it is my pleasure to introduce to you the two gentlemen who now own the Opéra Populaire, M. Richard Firmin and M. Gilles André." 

There was a polite applause among the stagehands, dancers, and actors and some bowing.  Carlotta made her presence felt by thrusting herself in front of two male actors and smiling prettily, batting her eyelashes at M. André, who raised an eyebrow and looked pleased.  I was disgusted.  

Lefevere turned and took her by the elbow, bringing her forward as he said, "Gentlemen, Signora Carlotta Guidicelli, our leading soprano for five seasons now." André darted forward and took Carlotta's hand, then kissed the tips of her fingers in a gesture of affected gallantry.  "Of course, of course," he said. "I have experienced _all of your greatest roles, Signora!" _

During this, I saw Lefevere turn around, as if he sensed a presence at his elbow.  Signor Piangi was standing slightly behind him and he was glaring indignantly at M. Gilles André, new co-manager of the Opéra Populaire.  _New co-manager indeed__ – Lefevere is a fool__ if he thinks that he's going to get off this easily.  _

"And Signor Ubaldo Piangi," he added.

Firmin came forward and offered his hand to Piangi, who shook it with little deference, being mostly concerned with the conversation between the other manager and Carlotta.  "An honour, Signor," he said.  Perhaps he could see that Piangi was getting more and more angry with André by the moment, for he had quite obviously decided to make an attempt at somewhat distracting him.  

Meanwhile, André was speaking. "If I remember rightly, Elissa has a rather fine aria in Act Three of 'Hannibal'," he said, flatteringly. "I wonder, Signora, if, as a personal favour, you would oblige us with a private rendition?" He then looked towards M. Reyer, the chief repetiteur, who had also objected to Lefevere's interrupting the rehearsal earlier with his two guests, and remarked, somewhat acerbic, "Unless, of course, _M. Reyer_ objects…"

Carlotta flashed M. Reyer a dazzling smile. 

"My manager_ commands…M. Reyer?"_

He bowed to her and replied, "My _diva commands.  Will two bars be sufficient introduction?" This was asked as he seated himself at the piano nearby.  Firmin, who seemed as if he really didn't like Carlotta all that much but wouldn't lower himself to saying so out loud, replied, "Two bars will be quite sufficient."_

"Signora?" M. Reyer asked, ensuring that Carlotta was ready.

"Maestro." she answered, flouncing her round shoulder – the fat old brood mare – flirtatiously at him.  M. Reyer nodded and began to play the introduction.  Carlotta straightened her shoulders and stepped forward, her normally beady, shrewish eyes shining like twin moonbeams as she began to sing.  

I left the box and went to the flies, a deplorably wicked plan in my mind.  

Carlotta was in the midst of her song when there was a loud ripping sound and then one of the girls in the ballet chorus screamed, pointing to a place somewhere behind the diva.  A cry from all instantly filled the stage, for part of the backdrop had pulled free from its hangings high above them and was crashing towards Carlotta, who looked up, saw it, and darted forward just in time, much to my disappointment.  The backdrop hit the floor with a loud, somewhat dull thud, sending dust flying into the air—

And then all was silent.  

In the immediate, stunned aftermath of the disaster, a few of the younger ballet dancers had begun to cry and everyone else was either murmuring among themselves, wondering what had just happened, or staring at the fallen piece of scenery.  The first audible words came from young Meg Giry, whose suddenly very dark eyes were turned up towards the flies in an odd mixture of both terror and wonder.

"He's here: the Phantom of the Opera…"

Meg's announcement ripped through the chorus and the rest of the ballet dancers and soon the room was filled with whispers of, "He's with us!" "It's the ghost!" "He's here!" Meanwhile, Piangi was the only actor who seemed unconcerned about the reason behind the accident as he rushed across the stage to a swooning Carlotta.  "Idiots!" he snapped at them; then, tenderly, to Carlotta as he gathered her into his arms, "Cara!  Cara!  Are you hurt?" Adding to the tumult, Lefevere joined in, exclaiming loudly, "Signora!  Are you all right?  _Buquet_!  _Where is Buquet_?"

"Is no one concerned for our prima donna?" Piangi asked plaintively, although Carlotta was simply hysterical and frightened, but not injured in any way.  Ignoring him, Lefevere glanced up, and ordered curtly to some of the stagehands that stood nearby. "Get that man down here!" He then turned to Firmin and Andre, explaining hastily, "Chief of the flies.  _He's responsible for this."_

I had quickly disappeared from sight and knowledge several moments before the two stage hands ran up the flight of stairs to the flies, the glow of light from the lanterns that they were carrying splashing and wavering wildly in the shadows, but barely penetrating the deeper blackness there.  I stood and watched as they did their work and moments later, I turned my attentions down to the stage again as the old stagehand hobbled onstage.  Joseph Buquet had been in the employ of the Opéra Populaire's managers ever since I could remember, but since he had been alive long, long before that, it wasn't _exactly slighting him when someone called him ancient.  _

Suddenly, I glanced closer, frowning ever so slightly, when I saw that, in Buquet's hand, was something that he had partially concealed in his tattered, dingy brown coat.  Lefevere, however, in his impatience, disregarded it.  "Buquet!" he snapped. "For Heaven's sake, man, what's going on up there?"

"Please, monsieur, don't look at me," the old man replied, "As Heaven is my witness, I was not present where I should have been.  Please, monsieur, there's no one there: and if there is, well then…" 

With that, he held up the tattered cloth and pulled from it a length of rope, its end fashioned into a noose.  Horror and repulse immediately crossed the faces of Lefevere and the two new managers as soon as they'd seen it and Buquet continued, "It _must be a ghost…"_

_You meddling blackguard._

There was a moment of stunned silence and then Meg broke it by saying, "He's there: the Phantom of the Opera…" 

And my disgust turned into anger…

Irritated, André snapped, "Good heavens!  Will you show a little courtesy?" Meg, however, only stared at him with vacant, emotionless eyes and at length, he turned away, tiring of the silent battle of wills.  Firmin was also exasperated: "Mademoiselle, please!" he begged.  Then André turned to Carlotta, who was standing with Piangi at her side, looking pale and shaken but unhurt.  "These things _do happen." he apologized.  _

It was obvious that he was hoping that she would have recovered enough from her shock by then to be reasonable.  Unfortunately, Carlotta _was Italian and Latin blood ran hot in her veins, as well as a full-fledged, tyrannical temper.  She stepped forward, leaving Piangi's side, her eyes blazing, and bit off her next words.  _

"_Si!  These things __do happen!" she railed at him. "Well, until you __stop these things happening, __this thing does __not happen!" She then flounced offstage, calling after herself to Piangi, "Ubaldo!  __Andiamo!" _

He dutifully went and fetched her furs from the wings, holding them for her as she shrugged the wrap onto her shoulders, still attired in her Elissa costume.  Then the two performers stormed out of the auditorium, but only after Piangi had looked back once and spat contemptuously, "Amateurs!" 

And then they were gone.  

In the second stunned silence that followed, no one spoke.  Then, Lefevere announced, somewhat abruptly, "I don't think there's much more to assist you, gentlemen.  Good luck.  If you need me, I shall be in Frankfurt."

_And I shall deal with you__ later, M. Lefevere, I thought darkly, as I watched him dash offstage, grabbing his coat, hat, gloves, and cane from a stagehand that held them out to him as he passed.  He was gone as quickly as he had come.  There was a third, long moment of silence as André and Firmin stared at each other, and, alternately, the actors, dancers, and stagehands stared at them, watching for their reaction.  Finally, André spoke.  "La Carlotta will be back."_

"You think so, messieurs?" 

The cool, feminine voice that had spoken those words came from behind them and André and Firmin turned as one to see a tall, elegant, older woman with hair as black as midnight – streaked here and there with shocks of white – which was coiled smoothly at the back of her head.  She was dressed entirely in black and was resting her hands on a long, ebony-coloured cane.  It was Mme. Giry.  

She held out a folded piece of paper to Firmin, saying simply, "I have a message for you, sir, from the Opera Ghost." 

At the mention of this name, the ballet chorus – all of the girls excepting Christine and Meg – twittered and twirled in fear and Firmin rebuked them, seeming appalled by their strange behavior, "Good Heavens, you're all obsessed!" 

They went abruptly silent as Mme. Giry continued, "He merely welcomes you to his opera house and commands you to continue to leave Box Five empty for his use and reminds you that his salary is due."

Firmin looked incredulous and asked in a low voice, "His _salary?"_

Mme. Giry nodded slowly.  "Monsieur Lefevere paid him twenty thousand francs a month.  Perhaps _you_ can afford more, with the Vicomte de Chagny as your patron."  

_A Vicomte?  This was news._

André looked annoyed and the ballet girls reacted to this.  Just out of sight of the managers, Christine grabbed Meg's arm nervously.  I wondered why.  "Madame," André said in a controlled, although slightly tight voice, "I had hoped to make that announcement _myself."_

She paid him no heed, however, and turned to Firmin instead. "Will the Vicomte be here at the performance tonight, monsieur?"

He nodded assertively.  "In our box."

André, exasperated with the woman, finally burst out, "Madame, who is the understudy for this role?"

Reyer stepped forward, voicing the answer.  "There is no understudy, monsieur," he said, in a low voice as the managers turned to him, "The production is new." There was a reaction to this from the managers, who both groaned and looked away.  

Then Meg stepped forward into the midst of them, fearlessly dragging a reluctant Christine Daae along with her.  Christine, I noticed, shot the younger girl a furious look.  Her anger seemed to magnify her beauty, changing her from an innocent, pure, and untouched white rose into an exotic, intense, unrestrained flame. 

"Christine Daae could sing it, sir."

Firmin looked even more incredulous than he had when Mme. Giry had first mentioned my salary.  "A _chorus girl?"_

_Watch yourself carefully, monsieur._

"She's been taking lessons from a great teacher." Meg explained, completely disregarding the worried glance that Christine gave her.  Interested, André stepped forward and asked the pale young ballet dancer, "From whom?" 

I caught my breath and felt my gaze instantly rivet itself on Christine.  She had sworn to me…but would she give our secret away _now?  She looked away, however, seeming as if she really didn't want to answer the inquiry.  Finally, she replied, softly, "I cannot lie to you, sir, for I __do not know…"_

"Oh, not _you as well!" Firmin protested, impatient, and turned to his associate.  "Can you believe it, André?  A full house – and we have to _cancel_!"_

Mme. Giry interceded on Christine's behalf, siding with her young daughter, as she said, with an utterly convincing amount of firmness in her tone, "Let her sing for you, monsieur.  She has been _well taught." _

There was a long, dreadful pause as Firmin looked at André; André looked at Christine; Christine looked at the floor; Meg waited anxiously; and Mme. Giry watched Firmin for an answer.  And I watched them all.  Finally, Reyer stepped into the void, saying tentatively, "From the beginning of the aria then, mamselle." 

Christine took her place in center stage as the rest of the group moved to one side and Reyer began to play the opening bars of the aria.  Everyone in the world may call me biased when I describe her next, for to me, Christine Daae is everything – my every breath, thought, and dream.  My heart, soul, and _life are hers.  She looked so beautiful.  Her sapphire-like eyes shone, her delicate, well-curved cheeks were flushed, tinged with rose-red: a vivid contrast to her silky, pure white skin and her hair, dark and raven-like as it flowed over her shoulders and down her back in a thousand and one shining, silky curls.  She seemed so small, so fragile and innocent, so completely untouched by life and the world.  So beautiful – so utterly beautiful.  So enchanting.  _So beautiful_._

In silence, she waited for her cue.  Then she looked up, and her eyes centered on Box Five, where I stood.

_Sing, angel.  Now is your time._

_Sing for me, angel.  _

Then, she began the aria.  As music filled the stage and the theatre itself, everyone around her was awed.  Christine's voice was an angelic, perfect sound: bell-like and clear and sweet, unlike that of any other soprano in the world.  She could dip down into the lower notes of any scale and make them velvety and rich and soft if she so desired, and she could make her song soar into the heights of the highest notes attainable, bright and vivacious and pure.  And it was that moment that made her a star, for Firmin and André had decided to keep her in the part of Elissa on the spot.  However, I did hear only one more note of apprehension from the two…  

"André, this is doing nothing for my nerves."

"Don't fret, Firmin."

But I was satisfied.  I left Box Five.

*                       *                       *                       *                       *                       *

Almost before anyone had even had a chance to realize it, the evening of the gala performance of 'Hannibal' was upon them.  As the company rushed around backstage, lacing on costumes and donning stage makeup, and the richer elite of society drank champagne and joshed among themselves about the upcoming performance, Christine Daae was still in her dressing room.  

And _I_ was making my way through the dusty, secret passages that ran along behind the walls of the theatre, towards her.  Now I must confess that I had thought it quite amusing when Christine had been given her current dressing room in the wake of La Carlotta's desertion – the very same dressing room in which I had given her singing lessons for the past two years.  Within it, a large mirror had been placed: a mirror which I had put many secrets into, one such secret being the fact that – from one side – it seemed to be simply a normal mirror.  From the other side, the side on which I stood, it was a window.  I could see into the room and she could hear my voice through it…but she could never see me.  

To her, I was no more than a voice.   

I took up my usual position just as she crossed the room, glancing at herself in the huge, full-length mirror that was hung on the wall.  I inhaled sharply on catching sight of her face through the wall of glass that separated us, taken off guard by her beauty.  Then I watched as she smiled softly, turned, and went to her dressing table.  She picked up her mirror, her delicate fingertips caressing its worn edges, and surveyed at her reflection closely.  She was checking her makeup.  Of course, it was in perfect shape and even to the untrained eye, she was as beautiful as the goddess of morning herself.  

Suddenly, her hand flew to her throat and she frowned, a look of deep, intense worry coming into her eyes.  I knew why.  Her necklace, part of her Elissa costume, was gone.  For a moment, she frantically looked around for it.  Slowly then, she straightened and turned to face the mirror.  She had long since learned to sense my presence, something for which I was more thankful than she would ever know.  I didn't like the thought of coming upon her in the darkness of the opera house's halls and frightening her – which was why our contact with one another through the mirror and the mirror alone was such a pleasing arrangement.  She knew that I would be _there_.  

"You _were_ expecting me, weren't you?" I asked, breaking the silence between us.  

She smiled again and looked up and I saw that her eyes: her wonderful, alert, jewel-like eyes of sapphire blue, were sparkling with happiness.  "You told me once that I'd become a great singer, _mon ange." Then she paused, scanning over the mirror's other surface as if she thought that she might catch a glimpse of me there. "I may not be great yet, but I'm a singer…and I have you to thank for it." _

_Oh Christine._

My heart overcome with emotion towards the tender emotion in her voice, the sweet, innocent, child-like, and trusting expression on her face, I half reached out my hand, stretching my gloved fingertips towards her, towards the wall that the mirror served as to separate us.  I wanted to be in that room with her so badly, to be at her side and know what it felt like to look in her eyes as she looked into mine.  Would we forever be kept apart by mirrors and walls and shadows…and _myself_? 

And then I had a mad, reckless, stupid idea.

Without pausing to further speculate on the dangers, on the risks, on the chances I head of ruining everything I had somehow slowly built with her, the trust and confidence that she had come to have in me, everything, I acted on that idea.  As I moved to obey my wildly whirling mind, I couldn't think of anything but submitting to the deepest urge that I had.  And that urge was to reveal myself to her, once and for all.

Only it didn't quite work out that way.

*                       *                       *                       *                       *                       *                       

Christine resumes the narrative …

I was silent, waiting for him to speak, when the lamp by the door was extinguished, dousing the room into inky blackness.  The only light left was the one small candle on my dressing table. 

Then something brushed against my back, and a hand, gloved in immaculate white, materialized out of the darkness just above my ear.  Something glittered in its palm and I stared, my lips parting, as a necklace: composed of gold, rubies, diamonds, came to rest around my neck, settling coolly, gracefully, into the dip of my collarbones.  The hands withdrew and I gazed at the necklace, unable to believe its beauty.  

"It's beautiful!" I breathed.  

"Do you like it?" 

He sounded pleased.

"Of course I do!" I replied breathlessly, still amazed.

"Then it's _yours.  I thought that, perhaps, it might give you whatever power you need out there on stage tonight," He said. "That it will remind you of me and help you know that I will __never leave you.  Especially tonight."  _

Wanting to jump up and throw myself in His arms, I turned around and almost stood.  A quick movement from within the shadows and the hand that was raised to just inches from my cheek told me that that had been a terrible, terrible move.  

I froze.  

The hand, however, came closer to me, until it was just short of caressing my face, and then it dropped, as He said, in a very quiet, very low, and very controlled voice, "No, Christine…not yet…I beg of you…wait just a little while longer and I'll show you everything.  Just not yet."  

The pleading note in His voice was so touching that I knew that disobeying would surely ruin something, take something very dear and precious away.  I turned back around and looked down, hiding the memory of the rough, shadowy outline of a man's profile – the arch of the forehead, nose, lips, and chin very defined and aristocratic, however darkened by the blackness around them – in the back of my mind.  

"I'm sorry."

There was a surprised pause, and then the hand glided out of the darkness again and came to rest on the back of the chair, nearly touching my bare shoulder. I again felt the irresistible urge to gaze up at Him, to try to see Him.  But I restrained myself instead and merely veiled my eyes with my eyelashes.  

"Don't be, _mon petite."  _

A deep, wistful sigh.  

"There is _nothing that you can do for me."  _

His hand left my shoulder and in another moment, the candelabrum was re-lit and I stood as His voice instructed, "Now, sing your part for me – for you must shine tonight, _mon __amour."_

That was the first time that He ever called me His love.       

*                       *                       *                       *                       *                       *

Narrative switches to Meg Giry…

My mother seemed to be concerned about something that night, but she masked her concern with impatience, brought me aside and said, "Go see what is keeping Christine.  It's almost time for her to be onstage and she hasn't even come out of her dressing room yet." 

I had my own counsel about how long Christine was allowed to stay in her dressing room, but any argument with my mother wouldn't help the situation, so I nodded and ran back to the dressing room area.  Christine's room, only recently given to her as a result of her new position in the Opéra, was located in a corner near the back entrance to the main hall area.  Thus, it took me several minutes to run up a number of stairs and sprint down the hall to the room.  Once there, I leaned up against the wall outside of the door for a long moment, trying hard to catch my breath.  

All of the girls in the ballet corps, including me, were well in shape – how could we _not_ be?  My mother demanded it!  However, running that fast and that long could literally take the wind out of _anyone's lungs.  _

_It is truly unfortunate that there isn't an alternate__ way in, I thought as I went to knock on the door.  _

Suddenly, noises from inside halted me and I paused, frowning.  Inside the room, I could hear Christine going over her aria from the opera…but there was another voice there, in the room with her…singing with her, _in perfect harmony…_

I listened and the song continued.  

_Think of me,_

_Think of me fondly,_

_When we've said_

_Goodbye._

_Remember me_

_Once in a while – _

_Please promise me_

_You'll try…_

_On that day,_

_That not so distant day_

_When you were_

_Far away_

_And free…_

_If you ever _

_Find a moment,_

_Stop and think of me…_

It was all too beautiful.  I felt tears, even though I didn't know why, pricking my eyes and could barely keep myself from bursting into sobs at the wondrous majesty of the music that swept over me from inside that dressing room.  Christine sang the notes perfectly: her voice sound like that of an angel.  

But the other voice that accompanied hers was too wonderful to describe.  

It belonged to a man, of that I was sure: tenor, beautifully so, and vibrant, like the ringing notes of a harp, and…I can't describe it.  I had heard many impressive singers before, but this one far excelled them all.  This singer made his music with something intangibly heavenly – he sang with _passion.  _

Who was it that sang with Christine?  

I felt a cold chill go through me and crept towards the door, which was cracked open just ever so slightly.  By pressing my body up against the wall and tilting my head just ever so slightly, I could just barely make out the interior of the room.  And as I looked in…ah-ha!  There was Christine, standing by the mirror, her back to it.  I remembered that mirror well – it was gigantic and incredibly elegant, and one could see every single aspect of one's looks within it, from head to toe.  But the odd thing was that Christine had her back to it and she wasn't facing it at _all…and the other voice – that voice of an angel – where was its owner?  _

I saw no one.  

Perhaps the door, or something else, hid him…whoever he happened to be.  But who was it?  _Who?  _

I squinted to sharpen my vision, wishing that I was invisible so that I could walk right in and see what was going on inside.  Christine finished the song, with her partner, and the last note of the song took my breath away so quickly and powerfully that I thought I would faint.  Trying hard to steady my whirling mind, I listened.

"Excellent.  You have done well, _mon petite.  You will excel all tonight and I will have never been as proud." Pride fairly dripped from that unseen voice.  _

"You are as beautiful as your voice, Christine."  

I felt a shiver run down my back.  Who was it that could address Christine in such a winning, smoothly elegant and alluring voice?  Trying to see Christine's mysterious guest, I leaned forward, even farther.  

And then in a split second, something absolutely terrible happened.  

My weight against the door caused it to suddenly swing open and bang into the wall of the dressing room, while I myself lost my precarious balance and fell, startled, into the room.  The voices abruptly ceased and I felt my face turn a bright red, flushing with both heated anger and embarrassment.  I had never felt so foolish.  I had been caught…_spying.  It served me right._

Suddenly, Christine was at my side, picking me up off the floor.  I held a hand to my forehead, rubbing it where I had hit it on the side of the door in my fall, and then looked around.  She was wearing her costume and looked perfectly beautiful, like the queen of Carthage herself.  But it wasn't the costume or anything else that concerned me at that moment.  

As I stood unsteadily, I looked around the room.  "Christine, who was that?"

The young prima-donna-to-be frowned as she stood there, trying to brush my costume back into order.  "What are you talking about, Meg?" Even the skeptical note in my friend's voice didn't dissuade me.  I _had seen something and I knew it, even if __she __didn't.  "That voice – the one that sang so much like an angel – who was it?" _

Christine's dark, curving arch of a right eyebrow furrowed over the fine, straight bridge of her nose as she watched me.  

"You must have hit your head harder than I thought, _ma __cherie."_

"There was someone here, Christine!" I protested, my dark eyes snapping with impatience at my friend, "And if you don't tell me who it was, I'll – I'll…" I trailed off, unable to say what I would do.  Christine smiled gaily to that, steering us both towards the door as she said, "Come along, Meg Giry.  We've had enough adventures for tonight and the opera can't start without us." 

I looked back towards the dressing room; its door was closed by then, and I shook my head.  "There was someone there.  I heard his voice." 

At my side, Christine looked at me sharply.  "You heard nothing!" she said, with surprising vehemence. "The voice that you heard was nothing but an echo: a vibration of my practicing against the walls – or it could have been your imagination.  Tell me seriously, Meg, did you _really hear someone there or did you just __want to hear someone?"  At my perplexed look, she shrugged lightly and walked on, and when we had reached the backstage area, we went to our places.  _

However, something – something more than just a mere feeling – told me that Christine wasn't telling me _everything that she knew._

*                       *                       *                       *                       *

Author's note:  I know, Erik was a bit bold there, coming into her dressing room and standing right there behind her, but he's also Erik, so there was never any danger that she could have seen him.  Besides, the whole set-up of that scene just seemed to work as a bit of mysterious romance between the two – can you honestly blame me?


	4. After the Gala

Author's note:  Nothing to say right now, but it is my hope that you find enjoyment in this.  ^_^

Disclaimer:  I.  DON'T.  OWN.  THEM.  There!

Chapter Four –

After the Gala

Narrative returns to Christine…

What else is there for me to say?  The gala opening of 'Hannibal' passed smoothly, like a bolt of deep, rich red satin and ended with a note so perfect, so shining that it seemed like a diamond.  Thanks to my unseen Angel's teaching, I was an instant masterstroke and the audience, let alone my friends onstage, simply adored me.  Or so Mme. Giry and the rest of the cast said.  

As soon as I had sung my final aria, 'Think of Me', and received a heartfelt applause from my new admirers, I made my exit, the curtain swinging shut behind me and enveloping me in a cloak of darkness.  Before I had even had a chance to catch my breath, all my friends from the ballet corps gushed around me, all chattering and congratulating me.  I handed each of them a flower from the bouquet that had been thrown onstage for me and turned to M. Reyer, who stood aloofly nearby, for his approval.  He nodded stiffly and then Mme. Giry claimed my attentions.  "Yes, you did well." she said. "He will be pleased." 

Before I could grasp what she had meant by this, she rounded on the ballet dancers.  "And you!" she scolded, in indignant anger, "_You were a disgrace tonight!  Such __ronds de jambe!  Such __temps de cuisse!  Here – we rehearse.  Now!" _

She emphasized her last word with her cane and the ballet girls scampered to get into their positions, and, in another minute, she had them all practicing as if they hadn't danced in the opera moments before.  Meanwhile, I, feeling flushed and excited from my first performance, made my way down the hall, leaving them all behind.  The shadows beyond backstage were lit by the moonlight that filtered in through the narrow, polished windows, leaving the halls riddled alternately with crisp moonlight and inky shadows. 

Then…

"_Bravo, my little one…"_

I froze, unable to move at the sound of the unseen voice.  But nothing happened then.  No one appeared, nothing moved, I was alone.  Nothing happened.  

Slowly and numbly I made my way into my room,  where I was struck by a sight undoubtedly more fantastic than anything else that I had ever seen.  Roses – hundreds of them, in pure white and deep, scarlet red that was so dark it was almost black – had been placed there, mounded on top of my dressing table and every other surface that was there.  Their fragrance was so sweet, so heavy, and so intense within the small room that it made me dizzy.  Who could have done this?

"Angel."

Even as I whispered the name, I knew that He, somehow, had given me these gifts.  Suddenly, there was a knock at the door and I turned around to see Meg Giry hovering in the doorway, also staring at the roses within my room.  I caught my breath, not quite knowing how I would explain this.  But she didn't say anything.  

Instead, she came into the room and gave me a jubilant hug, her green eyes shining, as she asked, "Where in the world have you been hiding, Christine Daae?  Really, you were absolutely perfect!  Oh, _c__herie, I wish that I knew your secret!  Who has taught you to sing so well?" I turned away, withdrawing my hands from hers, and reached out with my fingertips to brush the velvety petal of a blood-red rose.  _

"An angel, Meg.  An angel of music."  

I felt guilty for a moment, knowing that I hadn't told her the complete truth.  _But a fairy tale is better than a lie – and a lie is better than the truth._  

Meg frowned at me in confusion, bewildered, and said, "Christine, I don't understand.  Who is this 'Angel' you speak of?" 

The instant that I had entered the room, I shrugged, my thoughts overwhelming me, and replied, "Oh…the Angel.  Well…Father used to…speak of Him…he said that, when he was gone, he would send me the angel of music, to watch over me and take his place."  I tried to make my answer simple, as I slipped my frilly, clinging white lace dressing gown over my shoulders.  Silently, I tied the gown's long, draping satin sash as Meg processed my words, still frowning.  

"Christine, stories like that _can't_ come true."

"_This one has." I said, and even I knew that my answer was just a __bit too quick to be the absolute truth.  We stared at each other for a long, silent moment and then the door opened once more, and Mme. Giry entered the room. _

"Meg Giry, are you a dancer?" she demanded, and Meg nodded meekly, knowing that her domineering mother had caught her and that there was no way out of the situation.  "Then come dance!" 

Meg quickly left the room, scampering to get out of her mother's way before she was given more trouble, and Mme. Giry watched her run back down the silent, dark, half-moonlit hall that led to the backstage practicing area.  Then, she turned to me.  "My dear, I was told to give you this," she said gently, almost motherly, and held out a piece of paper to me.  Wondering what now was coming to me, I took it and nodded a quick thank you to Mme. Giry, who then left the room, closing the door behind her.  When she had gone, I broke the wax seal on the note and scanned over it.  

"A red scarf…the attic…Little Lotte…"

*                      *                      *                      *                      *                      *

From the unseen narrator's view…

I hadn't meant to startle Christine, much less frighten her – I would rather kill myself than do anything to harm her – and yet I knew that the only way that I could congratulate her was under the safe cover of darkness and invisibility.  I decided to get to the secret passage in her room and speak to her; there, at least, she knew and understood my voice.  But as I did so, I noticed movement in the hallway, beyond my secret passage, and heard two very familiar voices.  I turned to see what was happening. 

Outside in the hallway, André, Firmin, Mme. Firmin, and what I suppose would have been termed as a 'handsome young man' was making their way towards Christine's dressing room.  The managers were clearly in high spirits and Firmin had a bottle of the finest champagne available stuck in his coat pocket.  "A _tour de force!" André was bubbling, "No other way to describe it!"_

"What a relief!" Firmin remarked, wiping his brow. "Not a single refund!" 

Mme. Firmin elbowed her husband good-naturedly, saying, "Greedy!" 

They had reached the young singer's dressing room then and paused as André chimed, "Richard, I think we've made _quite a discovery in Miss Daae!" Nodding his agreement to this, Firmin turned to the young man who was with them and indicated Christine's dressing room.  _

"Ah – here we are, Monsieur le Vicomte."

I grabbed part of the wall to keep myself from reeling back in horror.  The Vicomte!  I had been expecting someone older, someone more around my age, or older than _that, even, but he looked as young as…  Suddenly, my horror turned to jealous anger and suspicion, for I realized that the Vicomte was undoubtedly somewhat, if not __exactly, Christine's age. _

"Gentlemen," the young man, Raoul: the Vicomte de Chagny, the new patron of the Opéra Populaire, bowed as he spoke.  I was disgusted to hear his voice.  It was smooth, young, and low, a perfect combination of both wealth and elegance.  If he went anywhere _near Christine, I would—_

"If you wouldn't mind," the Vicomte continued, urbanely, "This is _one visit I should prefer to make unaccompanied." _

Firmin had his back halfway turned to him, so Raoul quickly reached down and plucked the champagne out of Firmin's coat pocket and smiled suavely at the surprised look on the manager's face.  André, however, nodded and bowed, instead of looking mortified.  "As you wish, monsieur." He motioned to Firmin and his wife and the three began to make their way out of the hallway and away from Christine's dressing room.  

Before they had left, Firmin looked back, seeing Raoul at the door, and remarked, "They seem to have met before…"

Something died inside of me when I had heard that. 

Firmin's comment was lost as the two managers and the matron disappeared from the corridor.  Raoul, meanwhile, knocked on the door and entered.  I kept myself from coming out from my hiding place and strangling him right on the spot for entering a lady's room unannounced and ran to my position behind Christine's mirror.  Breathless, I got there just in time to see him walk through the door.   

Inside, just beyond me, Christine was sitting at her dressing table.  She was brushing her long, beautiful, glorious wealth of dark hair contemplatively.  

"Christine Daae, where is your scarf?" the boy asked, startling her.  Christine whirled around in her chair and stared at him.  _Good.  Hate him as I do, I silently told her._

"Monsieur?"

He sighed theatrically.  "You _can't have lost it.  After all the trouble I took.  I was just fourteen and soaked to the skin…" _

I saw that Christine was frowning; then, suddenly, she stood, her beautiful, sparkling eyes lighting, and finished for him, "Because _you had run into the sea to fetch my scarf!  Oh, Raoul, it __is you!"_

"Christine!" he said and laughed as they embraced warmly.  

From the stories that Christine had told me over the years I had known her, I had gathered many memories.  This meeting – Raoul _himself – was one of those stories.  Many years before, Christine had taken a visit to the seaside with her father.  One day, while she had been playing on the beach when the rough sea winds had torn her red scarf, a favorite of hers, out of her hands and carried it out to sea.  Raoul, the young son of an aristocrat, had witnessed the unfortunate event and rescued the scarf.  After that, the two had become inseparable and played together every day until Christine had returned home with her father.  Unfortunately, a few years later in time had brought about her father's death.  Then, Christine, in her loneliness and grief, had all but forgotten the young aristocrat who had been her friend.  _

But now he had returned and the two were reunited.  

After she had greeted her long-lost friend, Christine moved away and went to sit at her dressing table while Raoul pulled up another chair and seated himself on it.  I was beginning to think dark thoughts about this Vicomte de Chagny. 

"_Little Lotte let her mind wander…" he sang, reminding her of the childhood tune that they had always sung together. _

_Very dark thoughts. _

Christine smiled at him.

"You remember that too…" she said, but there was an almost unascertainable note of uneasiness in her voice.  Raoul, however, took no notice of it, as he continued. 

"…_Little Lotte thought: am I fonder of dolls…"_

"…_Or of goblins, of shoes…" Christine joined him as they sang together._

"…_Or of riddles, of frocks…" she sang alone._

"Those picnics in the attic." he reminded her, "…_Or of chocolates…"_

"Father playing the violin…" Christine remembered.

I could see the pain of sadness in her expression as she said that, visibly still grieving the loss of her beloved father.  I hated him for hurting her, for causing my precious child pain.  Earth and sky, eternity itself, I _hated him!  I kicked the wall in front of me viciously, but neither of them heard the sound.   _

"As we read to each other dark stories of the North…"

_You are treading on dangerous ground, Monsieur le Vicomte, I silently said, watching Raoul closely.  __The Angel is watching you._

" '_No – what I love best,' Lotte said, 'is when I'm asleep in my bed and the Angel of Music sings songs in my head!' " Christine sang alone, and I thought of her earlier conversation with Meg.  For a short moment, she seemed to be in another world entirely._

"…_The Angel of Music sings songs in my head!"  _

The last vestiges of the song faded into the darkness, and then Christine turned in her chair to face Raoul.  "Father said, 'When I'm in Heaven, child, I will send the Angel of Music to you.' " she said. "My father is dead now, Raoul, and I_ have been visited by the Angel of Music."_

"No doubt of it," Raoul said briskly.  Then he stood and held out his hand to her, announcing, "And now we'll go to supper!" 

Christine, however, shook her head slowly, and then she spoke.  

"No, Raoul, the Angel of Music is very strict."

He laughed gaily, as he replied, thinking that he was playing some sort of little game, "I shan't keep you up late!" 

_Why don't you just leave__, you senseless boy? I thought._

"No, Raoul…" Christine said again, but he would have none of it.

  "_You must change.  __I must get my hat." he told her, going for the door.  He stood in the doorway, adopting a gallant, affected pose. _

"Two minutes – Little Lotte." 

And, before she could stop him, he hurried out, leaving her alone.  Christine ran to the door, calling after him, "Raoul!" But he was gone and there was simply nothing that she could do about it.

I was already moving.

*                      *                      *                      *                      *                      *

Narrative goes back to Christine… 

I stepped back into the dressing room and closed the door softly.  The click of the latch seemed strangely loud in the silence and I felt, with a chill, as a trembling, horrible feeling rushed through me, that the air had just gone a few degrees colder.  

Raoul was gone…but _He certainly wasn't.  _

I took yet another step backwards, into the center of the room.  Then I went to my dressing table and picked up my hand mirror, running my hand slowly over its well-worn, familiar gilt gold surface.  "Things have changed, Raoul," I said, my voice quiet…and then something like an overwhelming, yet invisible presence invaded the room, slowly and silently, as if it were a shadow brought on by night.

"Insolent boy!" came His voice, seemingly behind the mirror.  I turned around, overwhelmed with happiness to hear Him speak, my eyes lighting up.  My Angel was here with me – that was all that mattered. He sounded as if he was angry, however.  _And He would__ be, after that__ scene, I recalled tardily as He continued._

"This slave of fashion, basking in _your glory!" Not only angry, but disgusted as well.  "Ignorant fool!" He went on, and it sounded as if He was sneering at the very mention of Raoul, the Vicomte de Chagny. "This brave young suitor, sharing in __my triumph!" _

I was spellbound by the sound of His voice, but I knew that I had to soothe Him somehow if I was to ever speak with Him.  "Angel, I hear you," I said, turning towards the mirror, where His voice had centered, "Don't be angry.  Raoul is my old friend." The voice was still silent.  Perhaps my tact was working.  I felt the mood lightening and said, keeping my voice soft, "Please don't be angry." 

There was another moment of silence and He sighed, deeply, and finally spoke.  This time, His beautiful voice was gentle and reassuring.  "Have no fear, _mon petite." He said. "I want nothing of him…I only want __you." A pause.  My heart began to beat heavily in my chest.  _

"Will you come with me tonight, _belle princesse?"_

I felt a wild surge of excitement fill my entire being, racing in icy, thrilling shivers up my scalp and down the backs of my hands.  He wanted _me to come with Him!   I found myself having difficulty breathing, but I managed to reply steadily, "Yes, Angel.  I will come with you."_

"Then look at your face in the mirror," He told me, "For I am there!"

I turned slowly, unable to believe that this was really happening, that I was _really going to see my Angel, at long last, after waiting for so long.  And suddenly, I saw, the mirror was no longer glassy and still – now, it was a bright, shining inferno of white light!  Then my eyes had focused on something beyond that light: something infinitely more brilliant.  For there, behind the mirror, stood my Angel…_

_The Phantom of the Opera himself._

I couldn't move.  

My feet seemed as if they were filled with lead, and all I could do was gaze at him.  He was partially hidden behind a cloak of darkness and I could not discern his face from within the shadows.  Then, the mirror glided noiselessly open, like a door, and we were standing face to face.  

The Phantom stepped forward and held out a hand to me.  

"Come, my Christine.  _I_ am your Angel of Music – come to me."

As if in a dream, I stepped towards him, holding out my hand and reaching towards him.  When my fingers were within his grasp, the Phantom suddenly took me, firmly, but not fiercely, by the wrist.  I gasped.  His touch was as colder than ice, colder than anything I had ever felt.  

_Cold as death._

He pulled me into the space behind the mirror with him, slowly and methodically, as if we were dancing to a music that I could not hear, and I gazed up at him, unable to take my eyes away.  The Phantom was tall: taller than anyone that I had ever seen before, and he was entirely cloaked in darkness and black, so that it was impossible for me to see anything else of him.  Yet I could feel the iciness of his breath on my face, and from somewhere high above me in the darkness, I saw what might have been a glimmer of light on his eyes.  

I was powerless to resist as he led me two steps deeper into the space.

Meanwhile, back in the dressing room, Raoul had run up to the door to retrieve me for dinner.  He heard voices coming from within.  One was mine – the other…he had no idea whose the other voice was.  The only thought that occurred to him was the fact that the door had very suddenly, very mysteriously become locked, and that it was a man that had just addressed me.  He yanked at the doorknob, trying to get it open, muttering to himself, "Whose that voice?  Who _is that in there?"  _

Still, the door would not open.

And Raoul was helpless to 'rescue' me.    

Behind us, the mirror slid shut, closing out the Opéra Populaire, the dressing room, and the world that I had known from lifetimes before.  But I didn't notice it – all I could see was the immense, shadowy shape of my unseen protector, my guardian, my Angel…the Phantom.  Again, there was a glimmer of something from within the darkness and I knew that his cold, relentless, penetrating gaze was upon me: staring at me up and down, through me, finding a way into my mind.  Then he drew me even further into the passageway that was behind the mirror, a place that I had never even known to exist, and thus, our strange journey into the depths of the opera house began. 

Unable, _unwilling, to withstand him, I let him lead me on through the passageway, staring wonderingly, at my surroundings, as if I was dreaming and this was not real.  In the dressing room, the door came unlocked and swung open.  Raoul dashed into the room, desperate to find me, only to discover that the dressing room was empty.  Little did he know that the mirror had just slid closed behind the object of his search and my strange abductor.  _

"Christine!" he called, still trying to find me. "_Angel!"_

*                      *                      *                      *                      *                      *

Author's note:  Duhhhhhh-duh-duh-duh-duh-duh!  *dashes over to the piano keyboard in computer room and hammers out the opening notes of the Phantom of the Opera*  Finally, the Phantom has his beautiful pupil in his grasp – what will happen next?  Read on!  (Oh, and if you review, I will make certain that you get extra long-stem red roses as an…ahem!, _incentive_ …)


	5. Le Fantôme de l’Opéra

Author's note:  And now we take the journey with the Phantom and Christine to a world below the Opéra – to the Phantom's lair!  What will we find there?  You will soon know.

Disclaimer:  They're not mine, but I can kidnap them, or at least try to.  Who around here hasn't?

Chapter Five –

_Le Fantôme de l'Opéra_

Christine continues the narrative…

The passage was completely constructed from stone: its floor was cool and hard beneath my embroidered slippers.  Here and there on the walls were golden, low-lit torches that barely afforded any light.  Instead, most of the passage was in darkness and I couldn't help but wonder how my mysterious guide was seeing to lead us onwards.  The Phantom took me through the passageway and we came out onto an iron walkway that was built over an endless, black space below.  I listened carefully and realized that there was another sound in the darkness other than our breathing and footsteps…

There was _water somewhere far below us.  _

Suddenly, I shivered, remembering the legends of the icy, underground lake and labyrinth far beneath the theater's surface.  We were now in the underground world that light had scarcely touched since the building of the Opéra Populaire—

The lair of the Phantom.

_In sleep he sang to me, in dreams he came…that voice which calls to me and speaks my name…  And do I dream again?  For now I find the Phantom of the Opera is there – inside my mind… _

We stepped off of the walkway and were once more standing on solid ground.  He led me across a small, open space and my eyes, finally becoming adjusted to the darkness, were able to discern a long, blank space ahead of us.  It was still dark, but he was carrying a lantern that I hadn't noticed before.  Perhaps it was because he had been holding it in front of him the entire time.  But why…?

_Sing once again with me our strange duet…  My power over you grows stronger yet…You'll give your love to me, for love is blind…  The Phantom of the Opera is there – inside your mind…  _

We stood upon a dock of some sort: that much I could see, and at the end of it was tethered a boat, shaped like one of the gondolas of Venice.  It rested in the misty waters of the lake and glimmering, star-like candles floated around it.

_Those who have seen your face draw back in fear…  I am the mask you wear…_

_It's me they hear…_

_Your spirit and my voice, in one combined: the Phantom of the Opera is there – inside your mind…_  

The Phantom stepped into the boat and helped me in.  I sank down onto the mound of cushions that were layered in the stern, all the while gazing at him.  He then set the lantern onto a hook at the front of the boat and picked up a pole that lay on the stone dock.  Without a moment's hesitation, he pushed off from the dock and began to guide us through the waters of the lake, as if he had done the same thing all of his life.  

_Perhaps he has. _

I shuddered as soon as the thought had entered my mind and shook my head slowly.  It was too much to think of such a horrible possibility.  I still had yet to see his face.  Then I began to wonder why everything was so dark and blackened – certainly it would have been much easier for him to move around in the place if he could see where he was going.  But maybe there was a reason for it.  

_There is something that he doesn't want you to see…  _

The lake was vast and misty, its surface covered by a strange, swirling mist.  The candles that floated in it and the lantern's dim rays were the only things that gave off any light, but I could distinctly make out the shapes of twisted, black iron statues half-sunken into the water.  They seemed to jut out like the mangled hands of drowning souls, begging for rescue.  Terrified by the sight, I quickly looked away, towards the Phantom.  Seeing that he was there, looming above me like a living, protective shadow at the other end of the boat, reassured me.  He would guard me.  He would keep me safe and guide me through this strange, dark world that we had now entered.

His world.__

_In all your fantasies, you always knew that man and mystery…_

_…Were both in you…_

_And in this labyrinth, where night is blind, the Phantom of the Opera is there – inside your mind…_

_He's there, the Phantom of the Opera…_  

Finally, after what seemed an eternity of traveling, I saw a faint glow of light ahead of us and looked to see what it was.  A gasp of both wonder and fear escaped my breast when I caught sight of the jagged outlines of a huge, black iron portcullis that was rising out of the water, dripping.  

Beyond it was a space that resembled a large room.  

In front of the portcullis, however, was a long set of steps made from solid stone.  The Phantom easily guided the boat to those steps and had jumped out onto them before I had even had a chance to realize what was happening.  He secured the boat to a pole that stood on the edge of the very last step: the point where it met the water nearly obscured by the mist that wreathed its surface.  And then he held out a hand to me.  

I stood and suddenly, he lifted me into his arms: easily, as if I weighed no more than a feather, and carried me into the room before us.  Gazing towards the place where I knew his face would be, I twined my arms around his neck, barely aware of the slight creaking sound that told me that the portcullis was closing behind us.  Then, he set me down and, after what seemed an interminable silence, he spoke.  

"Welcome to my home, Christine."  

Until that point of time, I had been unable, let alone unwilling, to speak, but now I felt words coming to me – thousands and thousands of words.  

"Angel?" I asked.

He nodded, the movement barely perceptible from within the darkness.  

"The same, _mon petite." _

His use of the name that he had given me calmed my uneasy, troubled spirits a little and I felt braver as he continued, "It's all right.  You mustn't be afraid."

_You mustn't be afraid.  _

The words echoed in my mind and gave me courage to finally speak.  I couldn't think of anything to say, however; or rather, I couldn't think of anything to say that would be adequate to the scenario that had now fallen before me.  The air between us was silent, and yet I knew that he was standing there, somewhere in the darkness: near to me and yet not close enough for me to touch him.  It was as if he was a mere spirit, a presence, who had captured me, drawn me away from the world I had known, and brought me to his realm of shadows and blackness: a spirit, and not a man.  

But he was a man – I knew that now.  Talk_, Christine, I told myself. _

"Angel, I cannot see you."

There was something that sounded almost like a deep sigh from within the shadows where he stood and then a quick movement.  

"As you wish, _mon enfant_."  

There was another quick movement from his general direction and, suddenly, rays of light, emitted by candles that were perched high atop several huge, glittering gold candelabras that circled the room, ebbed into being.  

I felt instantly relieved once I could see around myself again and then I remembered, tardily, the Phantom.  I looked towards where he had been and then, at long last, I _saw him._

He was tall and well proportioned in every way that I could think of.  His shoulders and chest were broad and muscular, as were his arms, but there was also the slightest trace of lankiness to his build: a slim gracefulness to his shape.  His clothing was sharp and attractive, melded to the shape of his body and made of black silk.  Of course, I couldn't see much of it because he was wearing a floor-length, black velvet cloak that had strange, swirled patterns of jet beading around the collar.  

And yet, it _wasn't his clothing or his form that drew my attention the most.  It was his _face _that instantly captured me and held me: heart, mind and soul, completely, as if nothing else existed, in a way that __no other man's face ever had.  _

He had an aristocratic, proud forehead; a straight, fine nose; the most beautiful lips I had ever seen; and a well defined, firm chin.  His eyebrows were dark and brooding: perfectly and expressively curved, as if they had been created specifically for the single purpose of poetry.  His hair was thick and just long enough for him to slick it back on his head, and it was of a colour that was somewhere between a hazel and golden brown.  His complexion was smooth, youthful, and extremely pale: white, with just the faintest hint of gold in it.  And his eyes – his eyes…  

The Phantom's eyes were the most beautiful eyes I could have ever imagined.  Framed by long, thick, dark eyelashes, they were not a pair of uniform colours but a beautifully mismatched pair of green and blue.  I had never seen anyone with bi-coloured eyes previous to that time, and I have never seen someone with eyes to equal the beauty of his since.  The green in his left eye was flecked with gold and amethyst, while the blue on the right held hints of black and gray.  They were impossibly beautiful eyes: so impossibly, unreachably, _wonderfully_ beautiful.  

But a white porcelain mask covered half of his face.

He must have seen the shadow of uncertainty that flashed through my eyes, for he moved, slowly, as if he didn't want to frighten me, removing his velvet cloak to whisk it about my shoulders, revealing the stream-lined, black suit he wore underneath.  I felt his warmth behind me: his breath stirred my hair when he spoke, his beautiful, wonderful voice low, captivating, and husky, softened so that it was barely above a murmur. 

"You're cold, _mon petite.  I should have seen that before."  _

I held out a hand towards him as he moved to stand in front of me again, and he paused, expectantly.  I hesitated, gazing into his strange, mismatched eyes.  There was something intimidating and incredibly powerful within them: as if he was an ever-living, immortal being who had been caged into a mortal body, cursed to live among men…yet, for some shadowy, black, unexplained reason, his gaze also seemed haunted.  

Haunted by things that I couldn't begin to comprehend.  

"Thank you."  

My words, so sudden, were like an explosion in the silence and he seemed paralyzed by them for a moment.  Then, he waved them off.  

"Don't thank me.  It isn't needed." 

He turned to motion at the space around us, saying, "As you can see, this is my home.  My palace beneath the surface of the Opéra Populaire." He shot me an apologetic, almost wry look, as I stood there, clutching his cape around me and marveling at all that I saw like a little peasant girl in the emperor's court, and then he said, "It's not _quite what __Monseigneur le Vicomte could offer you, but…"_

"This is better," I said, and even before the words had left my mouth, I realized how strange they sounded.  Here I was: just arrived in a place that I hadn't even seen _part of, and already I was telling him what I thought of it.  _

The Phantom, standing where he was, not having moved since we had arrived, just staring at me, with his strange, unreadable, and somehow cold eyes, shot me a raised eyebrow, which didn't help to ease my flooring embarrassment.  I blushed and looked away, mentally calling myself all the kinds of fool that I knew existed.  Then, as if he had sensed that my intentions had at least been honorable, he roused himself and lifted my chin, although his fingertips never touched my skin, to make me look up at him.  

"Thank you for saying so – it's not _true_, but thank you." 

He released me, smiling a little, but even then I could tell that the expression wasn't all the way light-hearted.  Something about him told me that he had seen much sadness, more sadness than any person should _ever have to see, and that nothing could repair it.  And it chilled me.  _

"Come, I'll show you around," he offered, and held out his hand.  

I gazed at that gloved hand for a moment: at the slender, long fingers that clearly belonged to a musician: artist's fingers, and then my gaze traveled up from the fingers, to the palm, the wrist, the forearm, the shoulder, and finally the face that went with them.  He was watching me quite calmly, almost questioningly.  I hesitantly put my hand in his, feeling his fingers close around my entire hand, folding it within them, and he led me away from the portcullis and dock.  

The room that we now stood in was a large, open space with a perfect, but cold granite floor.  Above us was a high, domed ceiling with ornate, incredible paintings scrawling across the length and width of it.  Gold edging spanned the place where the walls met the ceiling and it seemed to be _real gold and not simply paint.   Behind us, slightly in front of the portcullis and the dock, was the ring of huge, gold candelabras.  I stared at them for a moment, seeing that each of them was easily more than __twice my height.  __But that isn't saying much, I reminded myself ruefully, knowing that my height wasn't much to speak of, at least in this place, where the candelabras were gigantic and their owner was tall in his own arena.  _

To the left side of the room was a strange, cold-looking throne with silvery-black designs swirling across it, and on a table beside the throne was an adorable, but somehow strange-looking toy monkey, tiny brass cymbals attached to its paws, and dressed in odd, scarlet and gold robes.  Trailing from behind it was a wire, which connected to a barrel organ.  I wondered at the significance of this for a moment, then shook my head slightly and looked around again.  

Just in front of the candelabras was a huge, beautiful pipe organ with candles glimmering all over it and several sheets of music.  The Phantom caught me looking at it and explained lightly, almost carelessly, "My libretto – not quite finished yet, so it's not worth looking at.  My apologies." 

I felt myself redden and quickly looked away from it, embarrassed.  

"I didn't – I mean – you—"

With another one of his distant, almost cold smiles that didn't seem _quite real, the Phantom banished my uneasiness.  "Please, __mon petite, don't look so frightened.  I wasn't going to spring forward and devour you for looking at it, nor do I mind that you have noticed it.  I only say things like that to see how beautiful you are when you blush, cruel pleasure as it is, especially to you.  But you know – you __really ought to do it more often."  _

He chuckled in great amusement as I did that very thing.  

"There.  You see?"  

He then led me across the room, to a door that directly faced the portcullis, and opened it, bowing me in.  I obeyed, and he followed me in.  

This new chamber was a warm, extravagant type of entertaining room: complete with heavy, elaborate tapestries hanging on the walls, a large fireplace, paintings, books, tables, a thick, plush carpet that cushioned my feet, and several ornate couches.  A stairway made of black iron and glimmering, austere white marble led up and away from the room to corridors and passageways and other rooms that I knew nothing of.  The entirety of the décor around me was fiery and opulent, and somehow like the Moor castles in Spain and the medieval Gothic architecture of France.  

When I had finished surveying all of this, I looked up over my shoulder to where the Phantom stood.  He was watching me again, with his strange, haunted eyes.  After I had turned, he gazed at me for a moment longer, and then he seemed to realize that I was looking at him and shook his head quickly, as if clearing off a daze of some sort.  

"If you please, mademoiselle."  

He motioned to a curtained doorway: this one to my left.  I noticed that he was observing all of my movements, carefully, with his strange eyes.  I felt as if he was trying to see what I would do next.  I tried to act calm and aloof, hoping that I would pass whatever test he was putting before me.  

In another moment, we had passed into the next room.  This was also large and similarly decorated: with a beautiful black piano, more couches and tables and armoires, and lining its walls were rows and rows of books.  I couldn't and _wouldn't hold back the gasp of delight that burst forth from me as I stared at them.  Then I glanced at the Phantom, who nodded to me, the secret beginnings of a smile surfacing on his face.  _

"Good Heavens, I believe that it likes books."

"Good Heavens, I think that _it has quite a __few of them!" I said, crossing the room to the nearest shelf and running a careful, caressing hand over the spines of the books, savoring the crisp, dry, textured feel of the covers and inhaling the comforting scent of ink and paper. There was a pause behind me, and then he was at my side again.  _

"He read to you much, didn't he?"

I nodded, gazing at the books with intent eyes.  

"Yes…Father always told me that, other than music, books and literature were the sole reasons that we can stay sane."

The dry, low sound that supplied him for a laugh met the silence in the air and he commented, "Your father was a wise man then – a philosopher of much more elevated thought than his peers…but I believe that there is _one thing that he missed." _

I frowned and looked up at him, only after studying the titles on the row of books that were at my immediate range of sight; _Les Miserables, __Le Hunchback de Notre Dame, and a world of famous others seemed to jump out at me, reproaching me for my ignorance.  "And what was that?" I asked.  _

He watched me for another moment, his mismatched eyes seeing through me, scrutinizing me, piercing me, and then I looked away.  He turned halfway and leaned up against the shelf, supporting himself with his hands folded behind his back, and he seemed to formulate, consider, and play out his reply silently in his mind before he actually spoke.  "Art, _mon petite," he said then. "What do you think the Sistine Chapel would be like without art?  Or Notre Dame itself?  Where would the world be if men like Michelangelo and di Vinci and Raphael hadn't existed?  If not for art, well…" _

At this he trailed off, shaking his head, with the slightest traces of a wry smile – _that expression seemed to suit him, at least – curving his perfect lips.  _

I watched him for a moment, and felt myself stiffen when I caught sight of something rough and discoloured lurking where his lips ended behind the mask that covered the right half of his face.  He suddenly turned his head back towards me again and stared at me.   Somewhat startled by his abrupt movement, I turned the subject back to the books.  "You've read these?" I asked, but somehow knew that I was inquiring of the obvious.  He nodded, absently.  It seemed as if he was bored with the question, bored with the room, bored with the books themselves.  

"Yes.  Several times, in fact," he replied at last, after a moment.  

I tried – ineffectually, however – _not to gawk as I stared at __Les Miserables: a work that I had once attempted to read and failed miserably with.  _

"_All of them?" _

Staring now at the rest of the books lining the walls. 

He nodded again.

"Yes."

Suddenly wondering, I turned to face him fully, so that I could read his profile.  It was the most handsome profile that I had ever seen.  Everything about it seemed almost perfect.  And yet, there seemed to be a slight, unseen flaw…somewhere…  

"Forgive me if this is impertinent, _mon ange, but…" I trailed off, hesitating. "How long have you been here?"  _

At that, he glanced at me, seeming to take in his breath a little, then paused and seemed to seriously consider the question for a moment.  

"How long, she asks?"  

He seemed to be asking the question to himself more than to me, and paused again, shaking his head.  At last, he looked back at me, his strange, haunted eyes seeing through me.  "Ten, fifteen years, perhaps?"  

I felt myself shudder and felt a rush of compassion, strange but not unnerving, for him.  He seemed to know everything and anything…and yet, by looking at him, I really couldn't tell that he was as old as he professed to be.  Finally, I gulped down my raging emotions of surprise and shock and looked up at him meekly.  

"Fifteen years?"

He nodded, quite simply.  

"Give or take a few."  

I turned away, putting my hands to my cheeks and pinching the skin just below my jaw to make sure that I was still awake.  _Fifteen years!  _

Without a sound to tell that he was moving, he suddenly leaned around me and was staring into my eyes again.  "Does that bother you, _mon petite?" The almost teasing expression in his eyes and the flickers of a smile that lurked at his lips told me that he was trying to provoke me into smiling as well.  Just to give him satisfaction, I __did smile and shook my head.  "No."_

He shot me a dubious glance as he folded his arms and leaned up against the shelf once more.  "But it shocked you, didn't it?"

There wasn't any hiding from him, and _that I knew.  _

"Well…"

"It would, though, wouldn't it?" 

He almost seemed to be speaking to himself again and I couldn't say anything, as I watched him. 

"Any innocent child who hasn't been exposed to the true world and all its cruelties wouldn't see the reality, only the horror, in the fact that a person could live for such a long period of time without even being recognized.  But it does happen, _mon petite, and your Angel is perfect proof." _

He gestured to himself and I was reminded of the perfect, sleek smoothness of his form.  I blushed again – it wasn't every day that someone caught my attention in that way.  As if seeing the reason for my sudden flush, he smiled his charismatic, teasing smile again and motioned to the door at the other side of the room.  

"Shall we?"  

We were almost at the door when my eyes caught sight of another familiar title.  I glanced at him to see if it was all right, then went to pick up the thick, well-worn volume that I had recognized – _La Belle et le Bete.  A movement beside me told me that the Phantom was also looking at the book.  I stared at it for another long moment, wondering.  Finally, I gazed up at him.  _

"Is this yours…?" I ventured, not sure that my assumption of his possessing a fairy-tale book would keep him in a good mood.  Then, he nodded amiably, surprising me, and took the book out of my hands.  It seemed small and dark in his long, pale hands – the most beautiful hands that I have ever seen, even to this day – as he stared at it for a moment, then leafed gently, almost tenderly, through the pages.  His eyes glimmered for a moment and I looked away; then, he replaced the book on the shelf, saying, "I make it a hobby – is that how they put it these days? – of mine to collect books like this one." 

He glanced at the shelves lining the walls, frowning a little.  

"Somewhere in here are _Bluebeard, __The Steadfast Tin Soldier, Donkeyskin, __Griselda, __Ricky of the Tuft, __Puss in Boots, __Cinderella, and I __believe that I had __The Sleeping Beauty in the Wood the last time that I checked." _

Then, he sighed, shaking his head a little. 

"I never really liked that story.  The prince was just a little too soft for my tastes: always running off and going to war while his princess and their children were being tortured by his evil mother.  I've always looked on him as a bit of a sap – not being able to see what was going on right in front of his perfect blue eyes."  

The sarcasm in his voice was rather evident and he sounded almost bitter, so I decided to change the subject.  

"_La Belle et le Bete – that one is my favorite."_

That seemed to get his attention, for he looked at me quite sharply, as one of his dark eyebrows raised in questioning skepticism.  

"Really?"

I nodded and explained, "Father bought me a copy the year that I turned six." I laughed a little, remembering ruefully what I had been like as a rambunctious smaller version of myself. "I must have read it over a thousand times.  I always loved the picture of Beauty and her prince at the end, on their wedding day."  

At that, I frowned.  

"Some people always say that it's terrible that he turned back – that he should have stayed as he was, for they loved each other in spite of his being a beast.  I think…" I turned to him, wondering if I seemed very silly indeed to him, speaking so seriously on such a trivial subject.  He probably couldn't care less…but I told him anyway.  "Why _should_ it matter?  If they truly loved each other, it wouldn't make a difference either way.  Handsome prince or Beast, he was still the one she loved." 

A moment of silence lapsed between us as he scrutinized me, as if he was trying to see something deep within me.  Then, he spoke and his voice was low.  

"So, you think that it doesn't matter?"

I stared back at him, unable to take my eyes away; somehow, I knew that the subject behind our discussion _wasn't the fairy tale prince anymore.  _

"No.  It shouldn't."

The Phantom then abruptly turned away and I wondered if I had made him angry somehow, in some unexplainable way.  When he faced me again, it almost seemed as if he was even paler than before, if that was conceivable, and the golden tones in his skin were almost nonexistent.  And was it, could it be…?  His eyes sparkled so brightly that it almost seemed as if he was about to cry.  I shook my head slowly, banishing the thought.  

It was all too impossible.    

*                       *                       *                       *                       *                       *

I was amazed as never before in that evening when the Phantom showed me the wonders of his home under the ground.  I had seen many incredible things, but nothing equaled that which I now saw in my strange protector's home.   It seemed as if the strange lair was a subterranean palace, and I said as much to the Phantom, who laughed and seemed to enjoy the comment immensely.  

Eventually, however, we returned to the room with the organ, the foremost part of the lair.  I stood back and watched as he crossed the gleaming, black marble floor and somehow dimmed the hundreds of candles that perched in the giant chandeliers.  Then, he turned back to me and our eyes met, and melted into each other.  

_What's going to happen now?_ I wondered, feeling calm, relaxed, and drowsy – like a sleepy child who was content to be home and on her way to bed.  Was he going to take me back to the world above – the world where my life, and all of its loneliness and drudgeries and yet moments of sweet happiness awaited me?  Would he tell me that now I must forget everything about this place and expect to never return again?  That I must keep it forever a secret?

"It's late, _cherie_," he said, softly.  He had dropped his eyes from mine a few languid moments before and had crossed to the immense organ, going to stand before its keys, reaching forward to rearrange some of the large, cream-coloured sheets of music-riddled manuscript.  I watched the way that his mismatched eyes flickered over the music, beneath his long, ample fringe of eyelashes.  I loved the way that his eyes moved, the way that his face seemed expressive and thoughtful even when he seemed to be momentarily without emotion.

Suddenly, he looked up at me again, smiling gently.

"You should be asleep."

I clasped my hands in front of me, now certain that he was going to tell me either the awful or the wonderful words that I needed to hear.

"Yes, _mon ange_."

What else was there to say?

He looked at me for another long moment, and then he held out a hand, beckoning to me gracefully.  "Please," he said. "They'll all be out searching from the crest of the Opéra to the blackest regions of Paris for you by now, I'll wager.  There won't be any use in your returning tonight – or otherwise until all the fuss has died down.  Here, tonight, you have seen my home, little one.  It is now _your_ home: your sanctuary to which you may retreat when life's troubles assail you.  You have but to seek me."

I couldn't believe was he was offering me.

_This _was now my home.

Numbly, I nodded, and he stepped forward, beckoning again. "Come – there is but one thing that I now ask of you, and then you must retire, for what prima donna has ever excelled and paralyzed the world with the sheer power and supreme beauty of her own voice when she has not yet rested?  There is but one thing I ask," he repeated, showing me around the side of the organ, until I came to stand before its keys, with him at my side.  I stared silently at the music in front of me, thoughts whirling in my head.  He moved close to me – so close that his breath stirred my hair just ever so slightly when he spoke again, his voice a soft, icy cold, captivating melody in my ear. 

"And that is that you sing for me, _with_ _me_, just once, tonight."

_Oh, my angel…_

I nodded again, too bemused to speak.  He stepped away from me and seated himself at the organ.  I watched as his hands moved to the keys, and began to stray across them, drawing into being the most beautiful music that I had ever heard in my life.  Somehow, I felt as if I had already known this song, and when he began to sing, I joined him, and our voices blended in the most perfect of heavenly melodies.

_Night-time sharpens,   
Heightens each sensation…   
Darkness wakes   
And stirs imagination…  
  
Silently the senses   
Abandon their defenses…   
Helpless to resist the notes I write   
For I compose the music of the night.   
  
Slowly, gently   
Night unfurls its splendor…   
Grasp it, sense it   
Tremulous and tender…  
  
Hearing is believing   
Music is deceiving…   
Hard as lightening, soft as candlelight…   
Oh, dare you trust the music of the night…?   
  
Close your eyes   
for your eyes will only tell the truth   
And the truth isn't what you want to see…   
In the dark it is easy to pretend   
That the truth is what it ought to be.   
  
Softly, deftly,   
Music shall caress you…   
Hear it, feel it,   
Secretly possess you.   
  
Open up your mind,   
Let your fantasies unwind,   
In this darkness which   
You know you cannot fight,   
The darkness of   
The music of the night…   
  
_

At this point of the music, I felt as if everything around me was blurring into a blissful, fantastic darkness: a world where only music and my Angel existed: nothing else.  I left the side of the organ and strayed into the room, gazing about myself.  Then, I heard his voice – his beautiful, vibrant voice that seemed to shimmer like stardust in the air about us – singing on, right behind me.  

I turned and saw him, standing there, holding both hands out to me, and his amazing eyes gazed into mine, and I thought, for a fleeting second, that I had seen the depths of his soul there, in them. 

_  
Close your eyes,   
Start a journey to a strange new world!   
Leave all thoughts of the world you knew before!   
Close your eyes and let music set you free…   
Only then, can you belong to me…   
  
Floating, falling, sweet intoxication!   
Touch me, trust me,   
Savor each sensation!   
  
Let the dream begin,   
Let your darkest side give in   
To the power of   
The music that I write…   
The power of   
The music of the night…_

Then, he was directly behind me, and he was taking us across the room to something that I hadn't seen there before, something that was waiting for us in the shadows – a magnificent, full-length mirror. Transfixed upon it for some unexplained reason, I moved towards it, the Phantom trailing behind me.  I felt his eyes on the back of my head…and, as I looked into the mirror, I stiffened when I saw that there was no mirror, only the frame.  It appeared as if the reflective surface had been smashed out.  

_But behind it…_

Standing, cool and aloof, and staring right back at me with lifeless eyes, was a perfect, wax-face impression of a woman's figure.  However, there was something strange about it…for everything about this doll seemed to be _exactly like me, from the colour of the eyes to the quirk at the side of the mouth: never quite believing what the eyes saw.  She was wearing the most magnificent, ornate wedding gown that I had ever seen.  Mesmerized by its beauty, I reached forward, wanting to just touch the lace on the edge of the sleeve, to know for sure that it was __real and __not some vision.  _

Suddenly, the doll thrust its hands towards me! 

I screamed, terrified, and the doll's painted blue eyes – full of menace, no longer cool and slightly taunting – seemed to burn into my skin as it toppled forwards, reaching for me.  I then felt myself falling and then, just as I least expected it, everything around me went completely black.  The last thing that I was aware of was that something, _someone_, had caught me in a strong, deft embrace, and then I heard the softly sung, almost whispered words…

_You alone can make my song take flight   
Help me make the music of the night…_

*                       *                       *                       *                       *                       *

Narrative switches to the Phantom…

I ran to Christine and caught her in my arms.

*                       *                       *                       *                       *                       *

Author's note:  Ahhh…Music of the Night, truly one of the most beautiful songs ever written.  Who wouldn't fall in love with Erik when he sings this song?  Next update soon…  @à---  


	6. The Unmasking

Author's note:  Greetings, one and all!  I am back with another update – all of the chapters until the end of the first act this time, since I wish to move on while I can.  This stems from the fact that I am going to be having a rather lovely dental procedure (wisdom teeth removal, anyone?) done tomorrow, and so I need to update now while I can. 

**Cat**:  Thanks so much for your other comments on this story.  I would have replied to your e-mail, but under parental jurisdiction, I'm not allowed to write "anyone I don't know" anymore.  I'll still review your stories though, and will try to answer whatever questions you have regarding this, etc.  Also, your idea about the Christmas phic was totally wonderful – I will most definitely try it, as I've re-thought the ending of Phantom Retold as it is.  More on that later…  As for the link to my Phantom artwork gallery, I haven't gotten it yet, but hopefully soon I will.  And when I do, I'll post it on one of the chapters here, or in my profile.  

Disclaimer: *rrrr*  I don't own them.  There!

Chapter Six –

The Unmasking

The Phantom's lair, the next morning…

_Where am__ I? I thought, and then my eyes had flickered open.  I stared numbly at my dim surroundings for a moment.  I was on a bed of some sort, and it was large and soft.  The four outlines of what appeared to be posts of some sort loomed in the darkness.  I dug my fingers into the coverlet that was spread over me, wondering if I was at home or in the Opéra Populaire – but there was no goose-down pillows at home, and certainly no velvet, brocade, or satin.  My bed in the boarding house had never been this soft…or had it?  I then remembered my gala performance, the Phantom, our strange journey to his lair, and everything within it.  _

Had it all been a dream?  

Then I let my eyes focus on the room around me.  The warm and somehow cheering light of a fire that blazed in the fireplace nearby lit the room and I stared around myself in complete and undisguised awe.

_Oh wonders.  _

Instantly, I sat up in bed and gazed at my surroundings.  

The room that I was in was large and really quite spacious, in concordance with the rest of my Angel's home beneath the opera house.  Even the bed upon which I lay was gigantic.  It had a high, arching canopy of satin – the colour of which was somewhere between that of dried leaves, the finest Chardonnay wine, and liquid gold – that hung over the entire bed itself.  The counterpane was worked with scrawling, complex designs of flowers, scrolls, and flourishes of gold and ivory, backed with the smoothest, most divinely fine satin that I had ever felt.  And I could only _assume that the gold and ivory coverlet, pillows, and sheets that covered me were made of either my own delirious fantasies or real, __insanely select linen, satin, and velvet!_

I fell back against the mountain of cushioning pillows.  

How on earth could someone afford such luxuries?  How could someone keep such wealth a secret?  And what am _I doing here?  How did I, a small, orphan child, fit into this most elegant and glorious picture?  How could _I_ be in this room?  I felt like a scrubby maid who had been caught in her mistress's boudoir rather than the exalted lady herself.  However, although I was shocked by all of the wealth that surrounded me, and even more shocked by the fact that I had been placed in the midst of it, I really _couldn't_ help letting my gaze travel around the rest of the room.  _

On either side of my bed were two tables.  Both had cut-crystal vases that had been filled with the largest, most snowy white roses that I had ever seen.  Their fragrance burst through the air like the scent of a bottle of perfume that had just been spilled on the carpet.  When I looked down, nevertheless, I decided instantly that I would try to avoid spilling _anything on the carpet that I saw beneath my bed.  It was visibly thick and well crafted, with rich, Oriental-type designs, in the vibrant hues of wine-red mahogany, smoky green, glimpsing ivory and wondrously pure blue.  _

I barely kept my mouth from falling open.

The floor beneath the carpet was glossy, warm cherrywood, without a scar or blemish to betray that it had been used at all over the years that the Phantom had told me he had inhabited the place.  A little way off from my bed and the table beside it was the wall with its door.  On the wall opposite the bed was a dressing table.  The light from the fireplace lit the room up enough for me to tell that it was equipped with a mirror and that two large, dark objects stood on either side of it.  

Seized with a sudden urge to examine them more closely, I laid aside the covers and slipped out of the bed, reluctantly leaving its warmth behind me.  The carpet was just as thick and rich as it had looked, and the soles of my bare feet welcomed its softness.  I crossed the room to the dressing table, and, to my surprise, found a candelabrum sitting on its top.  I managed to light the trio of candles with the aid of the obliging fire and placed the candelabrum back in its respective position on the dressing table.  Thus enabled, I leaned over to examine the tabletop more closely.  

It was made out of cherrywood – the same colour of the floor – and had delicate designs of hammered gold pressed into its surface here and there.  A mirror, which had three segments to it and the same gold around its edges, composed its back.  On the tabletop was a large, gem-studded jewelry box.  I didn't touch it, being too interested in the other occupants of the table.  Perfumes, all in cut-glass bottles of crystal and sapphire shades, stood in beguiling temptation to one side of the jewelry box.  Of course, there were more jewelry boxes that I hadn't noticed before – the one that I had seen was the largest, thus I noticed it most easily – and they were filled, as I found later, with enough fabulously jeweled necklaces, earrings, combs, rings, and bracelets for a dozen vain princesses to gawk over.  The jewels in the pieces _alone were enough to make a seasoned collector's eyes pop out.   _

Another crystal vase stood to one side of the table.  It too held a number of large, beautiful roses.  These were red: deep, deep red that reminded me of the scarlet hues of lip colour that Meg had helped me apply to my lips the night before, for the gala performance of 'Hannibal'.  I gazed up, dreamily, at the ceiling for a moment: not noticing the beautifully painted fresco of rosy, plump cherubs that danced, carefree and insouciant, blissful in their infant happiness, among the dawn-tinted clouds.  

Had it _really been only the night before that I had made my gala appearance on the stage of the Opéra Populaire?  It seemed a lifetime away._

Finally, I continued my examination of the room.  

The two large objects that I had seen on either side of the dressing table were a pair of gigantic, towering cherrywood armoires.  They were of equal height and both were easily taller than I was, as was everything else in this subterranean, shadowy, yet somehow incredibly, unexplainably magnificent palace of my Angel.  I was beginning to see him as more and more of a Pluto of sorts: a paragon of the beautiful, yet somehow drastically unintelligible master of the underground world, who, because of a mysterious disability to belong in the world of men, had created a realm of his own: a world where he could be complete master.

The thought intoxicated me.

Shaking all of that off, I left the dressing table and its pair of formidable, wooden bodyguards and crossed the room to the fireplace.  On either side of it was two chairs, both high-backed, well upholstered, and deep cushioned.  They were covered in a mesh of shimmering gold and cream-coloured brocade and both had two large pillows stuffed in their corners.  I didn't care to disturb their tassels.  The fireplace was easily big enough for me to fit my entire body inside, if I had wished to do so.  However, I did not, as the fire was roaring quite warmly.  A long, thick slab of engraved marble stretched over the fireplace's heat; books, their pair of carved jade bookends, shaped like Athenian-style horses, with glaring eyes, arching necks, and flaring nostrils, and yet another two vases of roses.  They were champagne-coloured this time, with delicate veins of peach networking through them, lay on top of the marble.   

I brushed my fingertips over the books, feeling their cool leather texture with a bit of awed reverence.  I read Sophocles, Plato, Shakespeare, Aristotle, Dante – one of my personal favorites – and many other famous others among their titles.  

_La Belle et le Bete was there, as well.  _

Seeing that, I remembered my conversation with the Phantom from the night before and was suddenly shot with a reminder that I needed to find him, somehow, and ask what had happened the night before.  

I had a really very _dim_ recollection of it.  

Leaving the books undisturbed and glancing at the bright, emerald green and sapphire blue-toned landscape painting that was above them in its guild gold frame, I turned towards the other part of the room that I hadn't already looked at.  From where I stood, the wall with the door was to my back; the bed and its tables to my left; the dressing table, wardrobes, and small door, which I had guessed led into a dressing room of some sort, presumably, to my right; and the fireplace was directly in front of me.  

A little distance to the left of the fireplace was a small alcove.  

I went into it and found a tiny loveseat and window, complete with even _more pillows, which looked inviting but went untouched, and a elbow-height shelf with still more roses – these were red and white.  The curtained, diamond-paned window had a view that gave out on the lake and its shore.  These were partially illuminated by the lights from the house, but the blackness beyond soon took over, banishing anything but the shadows and mist.  I left that alcove and went across the space in front of the fireplace, finding another alcove.  This one also had a window with a view of the lake, and it held more books, all placed in towering, stately shelves, and a writing desk.  Pens, paper, and all sorts of writing instruments were there, just waiting for me to reach out and take them into my hands to waste away the hours.  _

But no – there was something that I had to do first.

I went to the door, which swung easily, invitingly open at my touch.  I stood there for a moment, hesitating, and then I boldly stepped forward and crossed the threshold.  

I walked down the hallway, not quite knowing where I was going, only sure of the fact that I had to find the Phantom.

Thus, it was completely unawares that I came upon the huge, tall room in which I had first seen him, the room with the portcullis, the candelabras, and the massive pipe organ and found him…my Angel of Music, the Phantom of the Opera.

*                       *                       *                       *                       *                       *

Narrative goes to the Phantom…

After Christine had fainted in startled, absolute fright the night before, I had carried her to the one of the only two bedrooms in my lair – her bedroom.  She was as light as a feather, slender and tiny and delicate.  I was afraid that I would hurt her if I didn't take the proper care in handling her.  

Once I had carried her into the room, I laid her on the bed, gently easing her out of my arms, and covered her with the blankets there.  Then I stood there by the bed, watching her, and had found myself wondering if she could ever know me for what I _truly was.  Most people hadn't ever cared to._

But I had hope: a small, faint, glimmering hope, like the star in the deepest crevice of Pandora's box, that maybe, perhaps, someday, that the young girl, the child, that I saw before me would be the cause of my salvation.  Then I had closed my eyes, not wanting to see how beautiful she was, lying there, asleep.  I hadn't wanted to think about what I could make her into, about how I could change her…about what she could do to _me.  I hadn't wanted to think about what could happen, if she ever saw me._

If she ever knew of the monster that lay behind the mask that I wore.

Pushing that thought out of my mind, I had lowered myself onto the edge of the bed and had sat there, gazing at her.  She was so beautiful – but could a Beauty _truly_ love a Beast, or was that only something that could come true in fairy tales?

I was certain that it was.

So, as tears had come and coursed down my face in an unmerciful, unrequited torrent, I had held her in my arms.  I had held her: trying to know the touch of her small, soft body against mine, inhaling the sweet, rose-scent of her hair.  I had held her: hearing – _feeling – her even, measured breath against my wrists and neck, and recognizing the beautiful mounds of thick, silky dark curls that filled my hands, overflowing the expanse of my palms.  _

And then I had known that I could _never let this angel go._

In the dim moments before dawn, in which she had drifted back to consciousness, I had lowered her out of my arms yet once again, and had left the room, leaving not a trace of the fact that I had been there during the night hours in which she had slept.  I went into the room in which I kept my organ and, as was my habit, begun to once more work on the libretto that she had seen the night before.  

Christine wouldn't awake for several hours.  

She would be exhausted from the late hours that she had spent awake the last night and I had no desire to awaken her from her blissful sleep.  The poor child was obviously never able to rest, as she needed to; that, I knew.  She was almost eternally at the opera house, singing with the chorus, dancing with the ballet corps, repairing costumes, running errands for the superior performers, and trying to stay out of Carlotta's way.  It angered me to see her pale and wan at the end of a hard, long day.  

So I let her dream on.

I was in the midst of a tender, dream-like ballad that I intended to add somewhere into my libretto when I became distinctly aware of a presence behind me.  I stood up and whirled around.  Christine stood behind me.

My sense of apprehension abruptly released its hold on me and left a feeling somewhere between shaky uneasiness and awkward embarrassment behind itself.  I stood there, stared at her for a moment, and then I looked down.  She didn't make a sound.  Finally, I lifted my head and broke the silence, knowing fully well that I _had to.  _

"Good morning, _mon petite." I said. _

"Good morning, _mon ange," she replied, in her sweet voice.  _

I, as my gaze held itself firmly riveted on her, noticed that the flickers of an uncertain, hesitant smile had come to the edges of her full, rosebud lips. 

"Forgive me – did I interrupt you?" 

Her words took a moment to register in my mind, which was stubbornly refusing the work after the last few hours of complete incertitude that I had experienced and I stared at her, unsure of what to say.  Finally, the words clicked in my mind and I started a little, then shook my head, slowly.  "No!" I replied, trying to reassure her.  Then, I realized that I had spoken in a tone that had been rather abrupt, betraying my distracted frame of mind, and I attempted what might have been a called a smile.  Even then, in spite of all my effort, the expression came out looking somewhat as if it had been painted onto my face.  Ashamed, I looked away from her, unable to bear the awesome, dazzling light of her exquisite beauty.  

"No, not at all, _mon petite.  I was only toying with that piece just now – __your being here is much more important." _

She nodded, and I looked away again, as an awkward, brassy silence stepped into the expanse between us.  Mentally calling myself every insulting name that I knew of, I glared at the floor beneath our feet, as if it would somehow tell me what to do next.

The events of the night before were undoubtedly questionable, and Christine would have to know all of the answers to the mysteries of my being, my dwelling…my life.  She had no idea who I was, while I knew almost everything about her.  She didn't know where I came from, who I had known, why I had chosen her to be the one to enter the chaotic and frightening realm that I inhabited.  

Perhaps I had caused her life to be somehow more confusing.  Perhaps I had somehow put her in an uncomfortable, maybe even dangerous situation, by entering her life.  Perhaps she didn't want to be what I had dreamed of her as being.  Perhaps she didn't even want to know me, after what had happened the night before – after I had taken her away from the world that she had known, into a terrifying, labyrinthine maze of darkness, mist, and shadows, and left her in a room that she didn't know.

_But I would have to risk that._

So, with a heave of air into my chest, I straightened up, turned around, and faced her once more.  I watched her for a reaction for a moment – nothing.  Her beautiful face betrayed no fear, her frame showed no indication of tense apprehension.  We stared at each other for one long moment, the blue brilliance of her eyes gazing into mine.        

"That song – the one that you were just playing…what is it?"

I glanced at her, questioningly.

"Oh – it's just a piece that I made up in my spare time here.  I've had quite a lot of it," I confessed.  Christine bit her full, almost square-shaped bottom lip and I knew that she had been reminded of the number of years that I had told her I had spent in the Opéra Populaire.  She shook her head back over her shoulders and leaned forward a bit, cocking her head so that she could see me easier.  I attempted to look away.

"What is its name?" she asked.

I squirmed a bit, uncomfortable; then, as if she was an innocent trying to coax a blessing from me: a black sorcerer, I made my reluctant reply.

"I call it 'All I Ask Of You'."

Her eyebrows raised and one corner of her beguiling, small mouth lifted a little.

"It's beautiful." 

I shrugged, trying to seem unconcerned, as it felt the black silk of my jacket roll and ride up over my shoulders.  

"Somewhat.  Would you like to sing it with me, my dear?"

She truly smiled then.

"Yes – I would _love_ to!" 

I reached out with one hand and brought my fingertips so close to her cheekbone that they nearly touched it: so close that I could feel the warmth of her skin, and she turned her head towards me, slowly.  I gazed deeply into her eyes, searching them for the truths that I knew were her soul, somewhere.

"Then sing with me…again."

Then, I began to play.  The music of the piece filled the room, surrounding us and whisking away all other cares and worlds, until nothing remained but we two –Christine and the Phantom of the Opera – and the music that dreams _alone can write. _

*                       *                       *                       *                       *                       *                       

Christine resumes narrative…

Even today, I can still remember every single thing of the moments after the Phantom, my Angel, began to play his song to me.  

When I close my eyes, I can see his hands as they moved across the immaculate keys of the organ, drawing the music from the depths of the instrument, breathing incredible grace and rhythm into the notes, and making them _live.  I can still smell the scent of paper, ink, and his cologne on the air, mingling and joining to create a fragrance like none other.  I can see his beautiful, mysterious, and yet untouchably sad profile as he played the music for me.  It seemed as if he was in an entirely different world._

And I will never, could never, forget what happened as soon as the last wonderful, sweeping notes of the piece died off, into the air.

Gone…but not forgotten.

Slowly, hesitantly, I reached up with my hand towards the back of his head, where the ties of his white porcelain mask wove into the shadow of his thick, wavy hair.  As soon as my fingertips had made contact with his head, I felt a strange, awful, and yet thrilling feeling come over me.  I felt as if I had just touched a part of the sun itself; warmth and cold raced through my being all at once and I closed my eyes, trying to regain what was left of my composure.  He was still unaware of my hand… until I untied the fastenings of the mask.  

With a gasp that sounded as if it was something in between a cry and a sob, he left off playing the music and turned towards me, the grace of his movements utterly vanished.  But I kept my hand where it was and didn't let go.  His hair was soft, yet slightly coarse, and when I looked at it closely, in the light, I could see the vague hints of gold against the greater expanse of warm, hazel brown.  His eyes captured mine the instant that I turned my head a fraction of an inch to look into his face.  I couldn't move my hand away from him, even though it seemed in the darkest recesses of my soul that I _should…and I didn't want to.  I felt his arm moving beneath mine and knew that his fingers would, in the next moment, close around my wrist.  _

He didn't want me to see what was behind the mask.  

I had known that ever since I had first seen him face-to-face: or rather, face-to-mask.  But somehow, I knew that I _had_ to see him, had to _know_ him, as he truly was, or something in our destinies would be strangely altered.  If I didn't come to know him as he truly was, if he wouldn't let me into his heart, if he wouldn't open his soul to me, I felt as if the way that I saw him would be exactly the same as the way that I now saw him.  Through the rosily tinted glass of a window, from behind the enclosing, blank, harsh whiteness of the façade that he wore…from behind a mask.

I had to see him.  That was all.  Doing so – seeing him and allowing him to see me in the light of who we were, what we were, how we had gotten here together, and where we were going – was the most important, all-determining thing that I knew of.  There was no way around it.  I had made my decision, and I would abide by it, even if it killed me.  And so, I moved my fingers to the side of the mask.  

"Christine, please," he said, pleadingly.  I looked down for a moment, gathering my strengths and knowing that, if I didn't carry out the action that I was about to do, I would forever regret it.  

_I have to be strong.  _

"Christine," he said again, "You don't know…you don't want to…don't do this…please." 

I sat back, the ties of his mask undone by my trembling fingers, my other hand resting on the edges of its whiteness, almost curving around his cheekbone.  I could feel the warmth of his skin beneath the mask and knew…

_How could he be subhuman if his skin was just as warm and alive as mine was?  _

_As anyone's__?  _

We then faced each other and I gazed at him, ignoring the hot tears that slipped down my cheeks, flowing steadily from my eyes.  He lifted his head, bringing it so close to me that our faces were just inches apart, and looked deeply into my eyes, and I could tell, in the deepest places of my heart, that he was trying to reach out and grasp the last, faint traces of reason within me.  

I wouldn't be reasonable.  Things had gone too far between us for reason to be relevant any longer.  I wouldn't succumb to the order of the world's ways – not now.  I wanted to see things, everything, the way that he did. 

I wanted to live as he did.  

That meant that I couldn't go back.

Not now.

As I edged my fingertips beneath the mask, he caught my hand and looked once more into my eyes.  Somewhere deep inside of our souls, we locked together: our emotions, our thoughts, our fears, hopes, and aspirations, became as one, traveling together at perfect timing.  "Christine," he said, his voice no longer broken by tears or strained by emotions far too raging to control, but low and even, as his eyes read me, read my heart and mind, "Are you sure that you want this?"

I looked into his eyes, gathering strength from him, from everything around us: past and present.  And, hoping for the future, I made my reply.

"Yes."

And as I whispered that single word, I lifted the mask off of his face…and there he was before me: the Angel of Music, the Phantom of the Opera.  A man.  The left side of his face was just as beautiful, fine-featured, and handsome as it had been before.  

But the right side was deeply and utterly disfigured.

I had seen great ugliness before: the masks that the actors sometimes wore in the more grotesque, macabre versions of the performances that the Opéra Populaire put on, the gargoyles that sat atop the spires and towers of the cathedral of Notre Dame.  But never before had I seen anything as horrible as my Angel's face.  It was hard for me to not be tempted to look closer, just to ascertain that I wasn't looking at yet _another mask, or some sort of horrible makeup.  _

No: _this_ was his face, as clear as day.

Stretching from the top corner of his face, where the darkness of his hairline met his high, perfect forehead, was a horrendous indenture that looked as if part of his head had been hit by a large piece of shrapnel and scarred, its sharp fingers etching themselves into the top half of his forehead.  Just below them, where the exact copy of his arching, dark left eyebrow should have been was nothing: only a slight line that spoke of the space that another eyebrow had vacated.  Next to the bridge of his nose were two hideous splits, which were joined by several more at the end of his nose, beside his cheekbone.  Slashing into the bone that crossed his face were two deep gashes that made his face resemble that of a skeleton.  His lips seemed as if they had been stretched out of proportion and were roughened by a number of rude slashes.  

It was a very ugly face.

Yet, as I looked at him, my mind whirling, I suddenly found that – when I stared into his eyes, past the outer horror of his face – _it didn't matter_.  

His face was the most horrendously disfigured that I had ever seen and it was certainly very frightening.  But it was _him.  It was __his face.  A simple face: part of him.  If his face was disfigured, it was only something about him that wasn't necessarily attractive.  He was no less of a man now, unmasked and vulnerable to my searching eyes, than he had been the night before, aloof and shielded by anonymity and disguise.  It was a face, just like mine.  It was true: both of our faces were different, but they were also same in many, many ways.  _

It was nothing to be afraid of.

Meeting his gaze with my own, I faced him, knowing that this, his disfigurement, was the terrible secret that he had kept from me.  It was the reason why he had come to the Opéra Populaire, in all essence: to build a world of his own, a realm where no one could find him, where no one could reach him.  Here, in the safety of the hidden passageways and trapdoors of the Opéra, he could hide away from mankind and become a figure – the Phantom – that so many people feared and respected with awe.  

His face was the reason why he had hidden himself from me for so long.  

A sudden chill went through me and I tore my gaze away from him, abruptly, as I realized just what that meant.  

He thought that I would repulse him because of his face.

I heard his voice then, and it drew me out of my shock and brought me back into the living world.  However, even as a strange, newfound hope and understanding flooded my mind, I could distinctly detect the echoes of grim, expectant sadness in his voice as he spoke.  I looked up and saw that his face was just as pale as I knew mine had to be. We were both crying.  He looked long and hard into my eyes and spoke, his voice low. 

"Now you see me, Christine," he said. "_Now_ you know.  I'm not an angel, and I never was.  I'm not the fulfillment of your father's promise, and I'm not a spirit sent from Heaven.  I…I'm just another man." 

So saying, he looked down at his hands, seeming as if he wanted to somehow use them to harm himself somehow and I saw that they trembled. 

He was afraid – just as afraid as I was. 

Afraid of what would happen, now that I knew him as himself; afraid of the world of possibilities that were assailing us; afraid of the past fears, lies, and hurt that could very probably come back to haunt him; afraid of the future.  Not knowing how he would react, I reached out and took his hands into mine, covering them with my palms and twining my fingertips with his.  He flinched.  

At the exact same moment, we both jerked our heads up and our eyes met, once again.  This time, I knew exactly what I was going to do, what I was going to say.  And so, attempting a somewhat weak, hesitant little smile, I spoke, ignoring the way that my voice dipped unsteadily over the words.  

"It's your face." I told him.

The Phantom looked at me for one long, seemingly eternal moment, his beautiful eyes incredulous and dark in his disbelief, as if he didn't know whether he wanted to believe me or not.  All at once, just when I was least expecting it, he withdrew inwards, seeming to mentally and almost physically collapse.  Without a second thought, I reached forwards and took him in my arms.  

And then I held him.  

My grasp on him was hesitant and somewhat unsure at first, and I could feel his frame shaking.  I closed my eyes and drew him closer, clasping my hands around him, feeling his warmth against me: his form holding close to mine as our grasp on each other tightened, his head resting against my shoulder, a firm and yet uncertain pressure against my skin.  I held him for as he wept, his tears dampening the lacy, white silk of my gown, until he was quiet.  

The entire lair, became silent and still as a peaceful crypt at rest.  

I let my eyelids slide open, until I could see the quivering, dark slashes that my eyelashes made against the greater pearl-like grayness of light in the room.  At the corner of my eye, almost out of the range of my vision, I could see the Phantom's shoulders, black and impassive as ever, yet bowed by the final ability to let go.  His thick, longish hair was incredibly soft, yet slightly coarse against my cheekbone as I rested my head against his.  He was breathing.  I could feel the warmness of it against my neck and collarbones, under my wrists, against my elbows as his chest moved in perfect, relentless rhythm to his intake of air.  We were quiet a few moments longer.  

Finally, then, he raised his head.  

His mismatched eyes were still shining from the tears that had haunted them and I could see perfectly every one of the shimmering flecks of colour that were in them.  Brushing his hair off of his forehead, he sat up a little.  Then, he heaved a sigh and spoke.

"Incredible."

He paused.

"No one has ever…held me – like that…ever before."

He had been looking down at our hands, still firmly clasped, as he said that.  Then he looked up and gazed into my eyes as he continued, looking away at something that I couldn't see, and his grasp on my hand tightened.

"Compassion is something that I've…" he trailed off, shaking his head, not quite meeting my eyes. "It's something that I've never really known.  No one has ever really cared to look at me – I doubt that they would have wanted to.  One look at my mask," he gestured brusquely at the porcelain mask, which was lying on the bench next to me, abandoned and gaping in its skeletal whiteness, "And people decided that I was a freak, a specter, a monster, a creature not worth thinking on."

"They hated you…because of your face." I said, my voice low and barely a whisper.  I was angry.   Without looking up, he nodded.  

"Absolutely.  Then again," he did look up then, and his usual, wry, somewhat bitter smile crossed his face, on both the handsome and ugly side, as his left eyebrow quirked acerbically, "It wasn't exactly _surprising_ for me to know that." 

He shook his head, as the light from above and around us, edged into his eyes and made them seem to glow somehow.  His gaze centered on the metallic surface of the organ in front of us.  Its surface was so mirror-like that we could almost see our reflections in it. He was staring at himself, at his face, looking into the eyes of what most people would name a monster, in bitter resignation.  Then, he looked back to me, and this time, his expression was unpalatable.

"I would have been a greater fool, long ago, when people first started hating me because of my face, than I am now if I hadn't come to grips with the fact that I was _exactly_ what they called me." 

He sighed, a long, deep sigh that seemed to emanate from the most shadowy reaches of his soul. 

"A freak – God's punishment to whomever my parents might have been for some past misdeed, a monster spawned by heaven-knows-_what sorcery.  Any name you can think of, I've been called it."_

Suddenly, he moved quickly and was looking into my eyes again, his hands reaching to take mine again.  I cocked my head and let my eyelids drop a little, scrutinizing him and wondering why everything and nothing in the way that I looked at him had changed.  Somehow, his touch seemed a world less cold.    

I drew a shaky breath and stared down at our hands, clasped together above my lap: his, long, pale, and slim, and mine, small and diminutive, not fitting into the backdrop of finery around them, that backdrop that they, that I, had been so strangely and suddenly dropped into.  After a moment of thought, I raised my head and met his eyes.  He was scrutinizing me once more.  I ran my tongue briefly over my abruptly and very rudely dry lips and gathered my words carefully.

"You are _not a monster, __mon ange," I told him.  He turned his head away as I continued, "You are __not God's punishment on your family, either.  God doesn't punish people that way.  He doesn't hurt His creation, His children – infants just starting their life in the world – in the way that people assume He occasionally does.  It's your face, just like my face is mine.  It's nothing to be afraid of." _

My voice went softer as I added, "And it's nothing to hate.  People who hate you are ignorant – they're _afraid of the task of looking beyond the things that they see on the outside.  And they shouldn't be." _

He laughed a little, but the sound was hollow and bitter: dry as leaves in the autumn and dust that swirled on the wind in miniscule cyclones on a windy day, and then he asked, "You're saying that _this isn't anyone's fault, in some way, then?" _

There was more than a slight undertone of doubt in his voice.  

"Are you telling me that _this is something that shouldn't be hated?" He raised his hand and gestured to his face, as his beautiful, mismatched eyes became hard and pierced through me.  I felt a surge of adrenaline rush through my veins, as I replied, "Yes – that is what I am telling you, __mon ange."_

There was a pause; he stood, then, and held out a hand to me.  

Wondering what was going to happen next, I stood and, hesitating for only a moment, put my hand in his.  He then stared at it for a moment, as if he was memorizing the veins and pores in the skin.  Finally, he looked at me and spoke, slowly, each word defined and deliberate.  "I'm not so certain that others will agree with you, _mon petite," he said; then, he added, "But I _am_ completely certain _now_ that I can tell you one thing."_

I smiled.

"And what would that one thing be?"

He looked down.  After a moment, he held out his hand, silently asking me to give him his mask back.  I returned it to him, and he replaced it over his face, tying its laces, and once more hiding within it all of the secrets that lay behind its porcelain whiteness.  He paused then.

"You've made my life worth living," he replied. "That's what it is."

We smiled into each other's eyes.

*                       *                       *                       *                       *                       *

Author's note:  Here's to Christine having a backbone!  I liked Kay's version a lot better than ALW's, no offense – I found Kay's version to be more compassionate and more understanding while still, at the same time, maintaining her original Christine-ness.  But this is, I shall tell you right now, going to be an essentially all E/C phic, so I had to keep with the romance idea.  R&r, please!


	7. The Magical Lasso, Notes, and a Prima Do...

Author's note:  And we move on…

Disclaimer:  One day, when I take over the world with my comrades, I will own the Phantom of the Opera and all those having to do with it.  But as for now, I'm only a simple phan who wishes to entertain others with my work.

Chapter Seven –

The Magical Lasso, Notes, and a Prima Donna

Narrative as told from Meg Giry's point of view…

After her gala performance in Chalumeau's rendition of 'Hannibal', Christine Daae – my best friend and the new star soprano of the Opéra Populaire – had disappeared from her dressing room, without a trace. 

She had suddenly, and quite frighteningly, vanished into thin air.

I supposed, as I glanced over at the girls who were standing nearby – the dim and seemingly pastel lights from the wings above us casting glowing, almost chalky bits of light on the spiral-curled, long wings of their hair – that it was Christine whom they were discussing.  From what I had heard being whispered in the halls and dressing rooms of the Opéra Populaire, it seemed as if many people suspected that she had departed with the handsome, fabulously wealthy young Vicomte de Chagny, Raoul.  I knew that he had paid her a visit in her dressing room after the performance, and also that they two – Raoul and Christine – had known each other since childhood.  

However, it didn't seem quite logical to me that Christine would have run off for an evening of celebration with the Vicomte.  When we had first heard that the Vicomte would be the Opéra Populaire's new patron, she hadn't shown any particular interest.

But I had heard other people, more superstitious people, speculating on the fact that several members of the cast had seen a shadowy form lurking in Box Five.  

It was Box Five that the mysterious, cloaked specter, whom we all called '_le Fantôme de l'Opéra' in our private moments of discussion backstage, demanded to keep a seat in.  Those people – the wardrobe mistresses, some of the lower-ranking actors, and __all of the ballet corps – now had the strange belief running through them that it had been __le Fantôme who had been in Christine's room with her that night, three days ago now.  They also believed that it had been __he who had kidnapped Christine from her dressing room, ghosting her away from sight and knowledge.  _

However, that was all simple-minded speculation, the high-ranking actors, practical stagehands, and managers said.  There was no such person as 'the Phantom of the Opera', Messieurs Firmin and Andre had told us, and he had not kidnapped Christine Daae!  In all likeliness, they announced, she had merely taken advantage of the chaos that generally followed a gala performance and gone home.  And if there _were such a character as the Opera Ghost, they would very quickly deal with the situation._

They clearly did not know of the Phantom.  

No one could give any sort of explanation when it was found that Christine's street clothing – her gown, slippers, cloak, and regular undergarments – were found in her empty dressing room, where she had placed them before the performance.  Inquisitive, story-seeking reporters had questioned the managers, searching for answers to what they called 'the mystery of soprano's flight', but all of their inquiries had been to no avail.  The managers, let alone everyone else, had no concrete, certain answers to the mystery behind Christine Daae's disappearance.  

I had a very eerie feeling about the whole situation.

Just as I was thinking this, however, I suddenly heard a few of the girls who were standing nearest to the wings utter several very loud and frightened shrieks.   I turned around quickly, startled, and got to my feet just in time to hear their cries dissolve into embarrassed, tittering laughter.  Then, I saw what it was that had frightened them _and made them laugh.  Joseph Buquet, the old stagehand who serviced the flies high above the stage, had jumped out from behind the towering, dusty stage curtains, wearing a length of fabric that served as a sort of cloak and holding a piece of rope that appeared to be knotted into a lasso.  He was showing off for my ballet chorus comrades. _

Approaching them with an air of feigned menace, shielding his face with the cloak, he spoke: his voice cryptic and ominous.  "Like yellow parchment was his skin…" he said, "And a great black hole replaced the nose that was _never there…"_

He was speaking of the Phantom.

Pulling out the lasso, Buquet then demonstrated his method of self-defense against the Phantom.  He threw the loop of the lasso over his head and pulled it taut; however, before it closed around his throat, he inserted his hand in between the rope and his neck, thus 'saving' himself from a garroted death at the hands of the Phantom.  

Everyone knew – from Buquet's stories of the Phantom's wiles – that the specter best liked to see his victims slain by method of what we had come to call the Punjab lasso.  Then again, Buquet's stories were almost completely drawn from the fictitious imaginations of the troupe and Buquet himself.  We could never be quite sure if the Phantom really _did choose to kill his enemies with the Punjab lasso, or, in truth, if he killed __anyone.  However, it was darkly amusing to come up with fantastic, gruesome stories about the ghost that haunted our theatre.  _

With a mixture of horror and delight, my ballet chorus friends applauded Buquet's presentation, crowding around him as he went on.  

"You must always be on your guard," Buquet said, sitting down as they settled themselves around him in a pastel-hued clump of tulle and satin, "Or he will catch you with his magical lasso!"

The room suddenly took on a deadly silence and we all turned around as one, fear rushing through our veins, as we heard a creaking noise.  The ballet chorus girls gasped and shrieked anew, huddling about Buquet, as a trapdoor – a trapdoor that none of us had ever known to exist – opened center-stage.  

Noiselessly, like the swoop of the wings of a bat on the night air, a long, gigantic shadow materialized from within the trapdoor's shadows.

_It was the Phantom!_

Screaming in terror, the girls grabbed each other by the hands and ran off, leaving Buquet and me alone to face the Phantom.  

Cloaked entirely in a long, billowing cloak of blackest velvet, a diabolically shaped hat covering his head and shadowing his face so that only a pale, skeletal slash of his famed mask showed in the light, the Phantom stood.  Just watching us.  Then, suddenly, terror flooded my soul as I caught sight of the pale young woman in white that stood beside him, grasping his hand, hugging close to his darkness, almost covered by the menacing shadow of his cloak.  

"Christine!" 

My lips mouthed the word but I couldn't make a sound come forth from my throat.  The very sight of the Phantom – the Phantom, with Christine by the hand – had paralyzed my movement, mind, and speech.  I was helpless.  

The Phantom, meanwhile, had fixed his stare on Buquet.  

The old man seemed as deaf, dumb, and stupefied as I was.  For a long, horrible moment, a cold, dangerous silence settled over the room as I gaped at the Phantom and Christine, Buquet stared, in terror, into the Phantom's eyes, and the Phantom glared, his eyes seeming to flash inhuman, yellowish sparks at the old stagehand.  

Then, without a word, he swept his cloak around Christine and exited with her, disappearing as silently and quickly as a shadow of a cloud before the moon in the dead of night.  Buquet and I didn't dare to say anything or to even move.  

I couldn't breathe.  

And then we heard my mother's voice.  She had come onto the stage by the wings, presumably as the Phantom had been glaring at Buquet with his horrible eyes, and was seemingly observing.  Then, she spoke. 

"Those who speak of what they know," she said, warning in her low voice, "Find, too late, that prudent silence is reasonable.  Joseph Buquet, hold your tongue – _he will burn you with the heat of his eyes…"_

*                       *                       *                       *                       *                       *

From the narrative of Firmin, the new co-manager of the Opéra Populaire…

It was _just what I needed.  Another migraine._

"This _cannot be happening to me!" I groaned as I entered my office.  _

It was a bright, sunny day outside and yet, even _that could not take away the definite sense of pessimism and uneasiness that I was now feeling.  _

As I crossed the large room to my desk, rubbing my temples to try to ease the pain in my head that I knew would soon turn into an all-out, full-blown headache, if not a nervous breakdown, I wondered how such a wonderful night could so quickly and easily sour into a perfect failure.  Perhaps it had something to do with the rumors of a ghost that haunted the Opéra Populaire.  I didn't know.  What I _did know is that the newest prima donna in the cast was gone, mysteriously disappeared – or taken, as people would have it – from her dressing room directly after her gala performance in Chalumeau's 'Hannibal' and that there were headlines plastered with the story in tabloids all over Paris.  _

My co-manager, André, and I were in a deep trench.

Speculating on whether things could get much worse, I sat down in the large, plush, leather-backed chair that sat behind my desk.  

On the top of the desk itself was a mound of that day's mail: letters, a few newspapers, the like.  Feeling a sudden rush of impatience at the whole blasted situation, I eyed the newspaper article that had made front page for the day, claiming exclusive coverage of the story on the mysterious disappearance of the Opéra Populaire's new, beautiful young diva, Christine Daae.  " 'Mystery after gala night!' " I read. " 'Mystery of soprano's flight!' " 

I picked up the newspaper, shaking my head with a scorn towards the memory of the reporters who had barged into the Opéra Populaire during rehearsals that very afternoon to pry yet another interview from us on the so-called 'kidnapping'.  

" 'We are mystified,' baffled _Sûreté say, 'Utterly and beyond words mystified – we suspect that foul intentions run afoot beyond the outer façade of grandeur at the Opéra Populaire!' "  _

I slapped the paper down onto the desktop and stood back, once again feeling my blood pressure rising.  My wife would have a fit if she knew that I was getting myself worked up again.  However, as I thought about it, it became increasingly clear to me that, even though it frustrated me to know that things around the Opéra were seemingly beyond my control, there could be a profit in all of the chaos.

"Bad news on soprano scene," I commented, strolling over to the tall, clear set of windows that took up almost the entire wall behind the desk, "First, Signora Guidicelli storms out in the midst of rehearsals, then Mademoiselle Daae disappears _after them!" _

I strode back towards the desk, then turned and walked in the opposite direction pacing as I thought furiously.  Since Carlotta's replacement by Christine and Christine's own 'kidnapping', there had been a vast amount of newspaper publicity on the enigmatic goings-on behind the stage curtains of the Opéra Populaire.  And with the publicity had come an overwhelming rapport from the prospective patrons and guests.  More and more people had thronged to the Opéra's box offices to buy tickets in order to see for themselves the elaborate, thrillingly terrifying inner chambers of the theatre that had so seemingly swallowed up the beautiful young soprano.

Yes, there was a _definite side of profit to the whole mess.   _

"Still," I remarked aloud, "At least the seats get requisitioned.  Gossip really _is worth its weight in gold!" I glanced towards the window once more, shook my head, and resumed my walk. "What a way to run a business; spare me these unending trials!  Half the cast evaporates into thin air, but the crowd stills applauds!  Opera – we may as well just go on and __forget Gluck and Handel, since it obviously takes only a simple scandal to pack 'em in the aisles!"_

Suddenly, the door slammed open, whacking against the wall with peculiarly destructive force, making me wince in reaction, and my co-manager and friend, M. Gilles André, stormed in.  The dark circles around his eyes and the ruffled messiness of his hair and clothing told me plainly that the last three days hadn't been too kind to him either.  

It had all started when the young Vicomte dashed up to us as we had been preparing to leave, telling us that Christine was gone from her dressing room and that he had heard a man speaking to her from inside, and that the door was locked.  This, of course, had promptly instigated an all-out gendarme inspection of the premises.  With the police force had appeared the reporters, and thus our long, long night of questioning and searching had begun.  It was now three days afterwards and there had been no sign of Christine, the Vicomte, or anything that would point towards telling us where she had gone.  The newspaper articles had been published and sold, letting the story on the loose, like an escaped animal of sorts.

Clearly, André was in a temper because of that.

"_Incredible!" he raged, stalking into the room and banging the door shut behind him.  He crossed the room to me, throwing his coat, hat, gloves, and scarf onto the chair that sat in front of the desk all in one flurried movement.  "Incredible!" he continued, "Will they __all resign?  This is incredible!"_

"André, please don't shout…" I began, attempting to calm him. "It's publicity and the take is more vast than you can imagine!  Think about it, André – _free __publicity!"_

He slammed his hands down on the desk, palms flat.  "Firmin," he said, with some asperity, "What good is _publicity_ when we have absolutely_ no cast?"_

Shaking my head at his youthful, somewhat foolish outlook on things, I reached into the mountain of papers in front of me and began sorting through it.  At length, I found an envelope that was addressed to me. 

"But André, have you seen the queue?" 

I went on looking through the mail and discovered yet another envelope, identical to mine, that was applied to 'one M. Gilles André: co-manager of the Opéra Populaire'.  Whoever had sent the notes had a devilishly good writing style…_and wrote in blood-red ink_…

"Oh, and it seems _you've got one as well, André." I told him, calmly, handing the envelope across the desk.  With an air somewhere between exasperation and surrender, André shot me a dry look and took the note.  At my nod, he sighed, as if I was making his day a tad more troublesome, opened the envelope, and read it contents.  _

" 'Dear André, what a charming gala!  Christine enjoyed a great success,' " he read, " 'we were hardly forfeited when Carlotta left – otherwise, the chorus was entrancing but the dancing was a lamentable _mess!' " Disgusted and perturbed by the writer's insolent tone, he threw the note down on the desk and began to pace the room.  Shrugging a little, I opened my note._

" 'Dear Firmin – just a brief reminder: my salary has not been paid,' " it said, in black, cruel, scrawling lines across the paper, " 'Send it care of the specter by return of post – PTO: no-one likes a debtor, so it would go better for you if my orders _were __obeyed!' " Now I understood André's anger.  I stood, knocking the chair backwards, and paced the room with him as we both mused our thoughts aloud.  _

"Who would have the gall to send this?" I asked.

"Someone with a puerile brain!" André retorted.  Having a sudden burst of inspiration, I dashed over to the desk and picked up both of the notes, then examined them closely as André continued to stride restlessly.  "These are both signed 'O.G.'…" I said, in a low voice, as something that felt all-too-much like fear came over me with cold, chilling fingers.  "Who on earth is _he?" André burst out, stopping in his tracks.  Our eyes met and then we both realized that the answer was staring us right in the face._

"_Opera Ghost_!" we said, almost as one.

"It's really not amusing." I commented.

"He's insulting our position!" André added.

"And he also wants _money_…" I said, even as I recalled Mme. Giry's comment on the Opera Ghosts' 'salary', which our predecessor – M. Lefevere – had paid him.  Thoughtfully, André commented, his chin in one hand, "He's a funny sort of specter, you know…with the gall to tell us what we've been doing wrong and how to fix it, right to our faces, and with the confidence to expect a large retainer from us."

"_My dear André!" I nearly shouted, in my exasperation, clearly seeing the sense of humor that he was suddenly taking the whole situation with, "__Nothing could be plainer except for the fact that this man, whomever he may be, is __insane!"_

The door, which had been closed, slammed open once more and André and I turned as one to face our visitor, who was none other than Raoul, the Vicomte de Chagny.  He _seemed just as perturbed and uneasy as André and I __felt, yet he had obviously had the good sense to remember not to show it.  His thick, blond hair was immaculately combed and slicked back on his head and his clothing was in as perfect condition as it had been the night of the gala._

"Where is she?" he snapped out, before André or I had even had a chance to welcome him.  We must have been even more haggard and benumbed than we had thought, for the both of us merely stared at each other for a moment, then at the young Vicomte, for a moment before either of us could rally our mental forces to make a reply.  It was André who made the first move towards conversation.  "You mean Carlotta?" he asked, uncertain of just who the 'she' that Raoul was referring to was.  It wasn't Carlotta, I knew, from the look of disgust and irritation at our dull minds and stupid questions.  

"I mean Miss Daae!" he said, "Where _is she?"_

Flustered, I finally managed to speak, saying, "Well, how should _we know?" and Raoul narrowed his eyes, with an air of supreme command and austere grimness.  "I want an answer," he said, icily, as he drew a slip of paper from his coat pocket and showed it to us. "I take it that you sent me this note?"_

My tired mind refused to follow this.  "What's all this nonsense?" I asked, bemused.  André at least seemed to understand the question – "Of course not!" he protested.  Finally, the accusation behind Raoul's inquiry came clear to me and I realized what he meant; I was quick to ensure our innocence in the whole twisted matter.  I echoed André's denial, "Don't look at us!" to which Raoul interrupted, with a dark look in his eyes, "She's _not with you, then?" _

"Of course not!" I snapped, irritated.

André, I suppose, had the better sense of the two of us and he replied, with a bit more presence of mind, "We're in the dark—" but Raoul would have none of it.  "Monsieur, don't argue," he said, handing the note to André, who stood closest to him. "Isn't this the letter that _you wrote?"_

I had had enough of this – the unexplained, bothersome mysteries that seemed to be wont to eternally keep appearing around the Opéra Populaire, the notes that our unseen critic was sending us, and now Raoul's own accusations.  "And what is it that we were _meant_ to have wrote?" I asked, belatedly seeing the way that André's eyes had suddenly widened as he read the contents of Raoul's letter.  Then, realizing my mistake, I felt a chill go through me and corrected myself hastily.  "_Written!"_

André read the note aloud, with a hollow tone to his voice.  " 'Do not fear for Miss Daae,' " it said, " 'The Angel of Music has her under his wing.  Make _no attempt to see her again.' " A moment of awed, terrifying silence stepped in between the three of us as Raoul shot both André and I a very puzzled look that was almost a frown.  At the same time, neither André __nor I could bring ourselves to believe the veracity in the mystifying events that were unfolding right before our very eyes.  _

"If _you _didn't write it," Raoul finally ventured, as he stared at us. "Who _did?" _

Before any of the three of us could react or even make a single move, the door slammed open, yet again, and this time, Raoul, André, and I whirled as one to gape at our newest arrival.  And in through the door, arrayed in a swirl of velvet and furs, swept Carlotta Guidicelli herself.  She didn't look _remotely happy.  _

"Where _is he?" she railed, brandishing still another note in one gloved hand, as she minced across the room towards us, her eyes alight with anger.  Her note didn't seem to have cheered her any more than ours had.  _

André, once again exhibiting his awesome ability to rally his mental forces in a moment's time, stepped forward to greet her, smiling uncertainly, saying, "Ah, welcome back!" 

Carlotta brushed him off, as she snapped, "Your precious patron – where _is he?"_

Raoul didn't seem to realize what danger he could be putting himself in the way of by replying to the angered diva face-to-face, thus allying himself against her temper; he folded his arms and asked, with a frown, "What is it _now?" _

Immediately recognizing him to be the personage that she must have thought was her enemy, Carlotta's eyes flashed malignantly and she met him in the center of the room, waving the note in his face.  "I have your letter!" she told him. "And it is a letter which I rather _resent!"_

"And did you send it?" I asked him, quickly.

Raoul seemed shocked that she would even suspect him of such an action.  He stepped back, away from her, an offended look on his face.  "Of course not!"

"As if he _would!" put in André, hastily._

"You didn't send it?" Carlotta asked, frowning in suspicious confusion.

"Of course not!" Raoul snapped.

"What's going on…?" I inquired, failing to comprehend what had just happened.

Carlotta shoved the note accusingly towards Raoul, narrowing her eyes, as she asked, pointedly, "You dare to tell me that this is _not the letter you sent?"_

"And what is it that I'm meant to have sent?" Raoul asked, just as pointedly; Carlotta handed him the letter and he opened it; the rustling of the paper seemed as loud as a cannon shot in the midst of the sudden silence that had fallen over the room.  

" 'To my dear Signora Guidicelli,' " it read, " 'Your days at the Opéra Populaire are numbered – Christine Daae will be singing on your behalf tonight.  I would advise you to be prepared for a great misfortune, should you _attempt to take her place!' "_

I glanced at André and he looked back at me.  After a moment, I said, decidedly, "Far too many notes for _my taste."_

"And most of them about Christine." André added.  I agreed, continuing, "All we've heard since we arrived here is Miss Daae's name—"  

Here, I was cut off by the arrival of two more visitors: Mme. Giry, and her young daughter, Meg.  "Miss Daae has returned," Mme. Giry announced.

"I trust her midnight oil is well and truly spent." I replied.

"Where precisely is she now?" André questioned her.

"I thought it best that she went home." Mme. Giry replied, unnerved, as Meg put in, with child-like concern for her friend reflected in her voice, "She needed rest." 

Raoul spoke up, asking Mme. Giry, "May I see her?"

"No, monsieur, she will see no one," she told him, pointe-blanc.  It was obvious that Carlotta could care less for the welfare of the young soprano who had so briefly taken her place as lead diva of the Opéra Populaire's stage, for she thrust her way through André, Raoul, and I, asking, "Will she sing?  _Will she __sing?" _

Mme. Giry made short of her reply, with no fuss or apologies.  "Here, I have a note," she said, drawing the slip of paper from the depths of her shawl in one graceful movement as she spoke.  Raoul, Carlotta, and André all dashed at her on seeing it, all simultaneously demanding, "Let me see it!" 

"_Please_!" I said, and reached over their heads to rescue the note, giving Mme. Giry a nod of thanks.  Then I opened it and read the words within.  " 'Gentlemen: I have now sent you several notes of the most amiable nature, detailing how my theatre is to be run.  You have _not followed my instructions; I am giving you __one last chance…' "_

Something very much like an unseen, terrifying, ominous presence settled over the room.  We all froze in our places, fear almost visible as it vibrated in the suddenly icy air, as an eerily powerful and hypnotic voice drifted into audibility: rising and overpowering mine.

"Christine Daae has returned to you, and I am anxious that her career should progress.  In the new production of 'Il Muto', you will therefore cast Carlotta in the rôle of the pageboy and put Miss Daae in the rôle of the Countess.  The rôle which Miss Daae plays calls for charm and allure, whereas the rôle of the pageboy is silent – which makes my casting, in a word…_ideal."_

There I saw Carlotta – across the circle of people from me – stiffen in outrage, like an offended hen whose feathers had been ruffled by a dash of water.

"I shall watch the performance from my normal seat in Box Five," added the voice of the specter.  It paused and seemed to desire that the feeling of menace that we knew loomed over us would be taken as real and not ignored.  "Which _will be kept empty for me.  Should these commands be ignored, _a disaster_ __beyond your imagination shall occur." The voice drifted off into the air, and I, after a long, terrible moment of silence, read the last phrase that had been written onto the page._

" 'I remain, Gentlemen, Your obedient servant, _O.G.' "_

There was a split second of silence before Carlotta's shrilling voice broke our pause like the shattering of a million shards of glass.

"_Christine!"_

"Whatever next…?" wondered André, bemused, as Carlotta raged on, shrieking, "It's all a ploy to help _Christine!"_

"This is insane…" I said, staring at the note in disbelief.

"I know who sent this!" Carlotta said, then whirled around and pointed an accusing finger at Raoul, "The Vicomte – her lover!"

He, ironical, asked her, "Indeed?" Turning to us, he asked, "Can you believe this?" Without a reply, André darted to Carlotta's side, trying to reason with her, pleading, "Signora…" Half to us, half to herself, she said, ignoring André's attempts to calm her, "_O traditori!" The scenario had gone far enough, I decided. "This is a joke!" I told her.  "This changes nothing!" André added, quickly._

"_O mentitori!" she shrieked, ignoring us._

"Signora!" I begged her. 

"You are our star!" André said, lighting on an excellent idea of how to appeal to her diva's frame of mind.  Hastily, I joined his effort, saying, "And always will be!" Carlotta turned away from us, however, clapping one hand to her brow in an exuberant actress's show of melodrama.  André followed her, still pleading, "Signora…"

"This man is mad!" I told her, darting in front of the Italian prima donna before she was able to reach the door and barring her exit.  André came to stand beside me and together, we kept her from making her exeunt.  Firmly, he stated, "_We don't take orders!" Then I stepped back into the center of the room and addressed them all: Carlotta, André, Raoul, Mme. Giry, and her young daughter.  _

And the Ghost, should he be around.  

"Christine Daae will be playing the Pageboy – the silent rôle," I said, and then cast a look about the ring of people who were standing about the room.  Among them, only Mme. Giry, Raoul, and Meg seemed to still have lurking thoughts of apprehension.  I ignored them, thinking, _What was there to be afraid of?  The Opera Ghost is__, in all likeliness, only a prankster who receives a thrill out of frightening people and darting about in a ghostly get-up…it's not as if he's real__…    _

"_Carlotta_ will be playing the lead."

*                       *                       *                       *                       *                       *

Author's note:  Oh, the poor idiots – if only they knew the price of angering Erik…read on!


	8. Nadir Khan

Author's note:  Here, part of Susan Kay's Phantom is featured to describe a meeting between the Phantom and part of his scarlet past – one of the changes I've added to this version of my retelling.  The parts from Phantom throughout the rest of this phic are indicated by ' marks and italics, FYI.  Enjoy!

Disclaimer:  Sir Andy, Ms. Kay, Mssrs. Yeston/Kopit, M. Leroux, and whomever else I may be forgetting own POTO.  I don't, which I regret, but one can't waste one's life brooding about things one doesn't have at the moment.

Chapter Eight –

Nadir Khan

The Phantom narrates…

_'I remember the evening very well.  It was…1881 and a cold, cheerless Paris mist had shrouded the city, bringing an early dusk.  Seized by a sudden desire for fresh air and exercise, I ventured out into the dark streets some considerable time before theater hour.  The hood of my opera cloak hid the mask, and thus attired I safely escaped notice from passersby.  To anyone who saw me I was simply another…Parisian, hurrying home out of the cold and threat of approaching rain._

_I had reached the Rue de Rivoli and was brooding resentfully on the sad, blackened remains of the Tuileries palace when a rising wind whipped away the last of the mist and began to drive storm clouds overhead.  As I turned to retrace my steps, the heavens opened; rain lashed down in torrents from the leaden sky and within minutes the street was awash with water.  When you can no longer bear to get wet with total indifference, you know you are getting old.*  I raised my hand imperiously to a passing brougham cab._

_The cab drew into the curb some distance ahead and waited for me.  Almost immediately a man coming out of an apartment block on the same side of the road saw the cab and began to hurry toward it with an exclamation of delight.  I saw nothing of him except his back, but he was wearing an opera cloak, like myself, and at this hour I could guess his destination with very little trouble._

_"My cab, I think, monsieur," I hissed with a hostility that made him step aside in surprise._

_Instinctively averting my face from his gaze, I swung into the carriage, slammed the door shut, and rapped my gold-topped walking stick on the dividing wall._

_"To the Opera!" I said curtly, and sat back waiting to be obeyed._

_To my astonished fury the door opened and the carriage rocked gently beneath the weight of the man who climbed inside._

_I looked up, but the oath on my lips never took breath._

_"Drive on, fellow," said this impertinent intruder calmly.  "It so happens that I, too, am bound for the Opera.  This gentleman and I are very well acquainted and I know he will be very happy to share the journey with me…Is that not so, Erik?"_

_I could not reply.  All I could do was stare at Nadir Khan with numbed disbelief._

_"Will that be all right, monsieur?" shouted the driver uncertainly._

_"Yes," I snapped.  "Drive on!"_

_As the brougham lurched out into the open road, Nadir took off his opera hat and his gloves and laid them on the seat at his side.  The first thing I noticed about him was his hair.  Once black and luxuriant, it was now thin and very gray, making him look at least sixty.  I was shocked at the change in him, shocked and horrified._

_"Well, Erik," he said, "this is indeed a pleasant surprise." '_

Now, at this point in my story, I fear that the details of my past must come to light – as if anything about me could ever be described with such a word.  _Light_.

I had been born in Rouen.  My mother, Madeleine, had been quite young and very beautiful, but her husband – my father – had died shortly before my birth.  From the instant that my mother had laid eyes on my face, deformed from birth, she had hated me.  The first thing that I ever wore was a mask: silk then, and the first cage that I had ever been placed into.  My mother had despised me, had been frightened of me, and had abused me, which was all I remember of her.  I was never allowed to leave the house, and the only true friends I had ever called my own had been my mother's pet spaniel, Sasha, and one of my mother's childhood friends.  Sasha had loved me, in her dog-like way, and my mother's friend, Antoinette, had always treated me with respect and kindness whenever she had come to visit.  Still, I had seemed doomed to an eternal captivity within the prison of that house in Rouen, held back from the world by the chains of my mother's hate and my horrific face.

Then, one day, I could no longer stand it.  I ran away from my mother and my prison, and soon met up with a gypsy circus that had been traveling about on the road.  The cruel, villainous ringmaster of that circus learned of my freakish face and I had become a captive, yet again.  I escaped the circus eventually, after several years of abuse and torment as the resident freak show specimen, and roamed all over Europe, letting my footsteps take me to any number of places.  When I was living as a magician, singer, and musician in the snowy land of Russia, a man who claimed to hail from the distant land of Persia appeared in my dwelling one day, saying that he came to me at the behest of the Shah of Persia, who wished for me to come and perform some of my wonders at court.  Somewhat against my better judgment – but with nothing better to do, as Russia was beginning to bore me – I decided to accompany this man back to his homeland.

Of course, that man was Nadir Khan: the Daroga, a powerful law officer in the Persian court.  He became a sort of conscience to me, perhaps even what might have been called a friend, which is something that I hadn't had for quite a long time.  He acted as the voice of reason – of humanity – during my stay in Persia, and we both owed each other our lives on several occasions.  

In Persia, I had soon found myself playing the part of one of the most exalted, feared, and powerful men in the Shah's court: an architect, magician…and executioner.  His mother, the beautiful but cruel and manipulative khanum, grew an unearthly interest in me, and when I displeased her, she arranged for my punishment with both rage and glee.  I repeatedly defied her, and finally, she grew tired of playing little games with me.  She attempted to have me poisoned, but somehow I survived this.  As is obvious, she then resorted to more open tactics – she sent Nadir to have me arrested, tortured, and then executed.  Nadir helped me to escape, and I saw nothing more of him for several years.

_' "That is entirely a matter of opinion," I retorted, trying to hide my conflicting emotions behind a thin veneer of sarcasm.  "What the devil brings you to Paris after all this time?"_

_"Oh"– he shrugged – "I have been here for many years now, ever since I was released from Mazanderan."_

_"Released?" I echoed, with grim foreboding.  "How long were you held?"_

_"Five years." he said with indifference._

_I looked out the window at the rain-lashed streets and my hand tightened on the walking stick with a mixture of rage and grief.  Five years in a Mazanderan jail!  No wonder he looked more than sixty…It was a miracle he had come out alive!_

_And what on earth was I going to do now, faced with the one person in this world that I could not simply remove from the dark paths of my solitude?'_

The conversation became even lovelier from there.  Nadir and I somehow got off onto the subject of my current occupation and living place, through some slips in my guard, and he quickly reverted to his ever-irritating conscience character, asking me quite pointedly where _exactly_ I lived and, when I refused to tell him, why I did so.  We reached the opera house and I quickly swung out of the carriage, warning him sternly to keep to his own business and not interfere with mine.  I explicitly told him to stay away from my home.

But, of course, he wouldn't listen.

I knew that.

He never did listen to me, even when my commands were for his own good.

*                       *                       *                       *                       *                       *

_'One evening…I returned to my house to find the alarm bell ringing.  I knew there was no one on the lake…so it had to be the torture chamber!**_

_My heart gave a sickening lurch of fear as I considered who it must be._

_Turning off the electrical supply, I rushed into the chamber in a breathless panic.  The room was still hot as a furnace, but it was in pitch darkness now and I could only dimly see the blacker outline of a body which swung from the iron tree in the corner._

_I stood absolutely still, paralyzed with horror, too shocked even to cry out.  _

_Why?  Why must the only victim of this virtually obsolete mantrap be my honest, stubborn, foolhardy friend?  It was my fault…all my fault…I had known what he was like, I should have dismantled the whole device as soon as I knew he was on the premises._

_Nadir, I warned you…I warned you to keep away!_

_It was a long time before I could conquer my revulsion and horror sufficiently to cut the body down and switch on the lights._

_The blackened, distorted face and the bulging eyes were almost unrecognizable; it was a full minute before I suddenly realized that I was not looking at Nadir at all, and my relief was so great that I began to laugh hysterically._

_Returning to the drawing room I sat down at the piano and played Chopin's Prelude in B minor, sotto voce, until I was calm enough to go back and examine the body with indifference and rationality._

_The clothing alone was sufficient to place it now: I knew this man.'_

It was Joseph Buquet, the senile old chief of the flies.  How he had stumbled upon my dark underground world was beyond me – perhaps he had somehow lost himself in the cellars beneath the opera house.  It was an easy thing to do, if one didn't know his way around well enough.

As I did.

So it wasn't Nadir, but another man entirely.  I felt remorse at his death, for it had been part of my home, my torture chamber, that had killed him.  And yet…yet it was really an accident, after all.  I had taken the proper precautions to make certain that no one came here, as I had no wish to have a hand in anyone's death, preferring instead to live my life in quiet and in peace…except for my tumultuous, yet somehow exhilarating relationship with Christine, Nadir's occasional meddling in my affairs, and my current occupation as the Opéra Populaire's resident ghost.

There wasn't much else I could do except to take the unfortunate fellow back up to the surface and arrange him so that it appeared as if he had committed suicide – as, in a way, he had.  I looked on the whole situation with a bit of pity then.  He must have had a hard enough life already; if I had really wanted to, I could have even said that his death had been a mercy.  

Nadir would not believe that I could have such thoughts, but I could.

And did.

This episode over with, I went back to my home and turned my thoughts to the upcoming performance of 'Il Muto', where my beautiful Angel, Christine, would sing and outshine all of the other stars in the sky…  

*                       *                       *                       *                       *                       *

Author's note:  YAY!  I'm much more happy with this now that I've added Nadir in; it just makes it so much better.  You have to love Nadir too…he may annoy the heck out of Erik, but he's a great guy.  Onwards, to 'Il Muto', shall we?  (By the way, Cat – this chapter was for you.)

* Note:  You can imagine Erik as being however old you want – I just kept that line in there to show how he recognizes the fact that he's quite a bit older than…ahem!, certain people *cough cough, Christine!*  However, I didn't like his age in the book, so I'm taking him to be about in his mid-thirties here: a younger version of Phantom, but don't shoot me.  It's artistic license.  He's also not prone to heart attacks either in this one – I opted for the ALW version there.  ^_^

**  We all know of Erik's torture chamber, do we not?  I thought so.  I just kept this in here because I needed it for Buquet's death, but it isn't featured in the final scene with Raoul and the Persian.  Sorry, but I again opted for ALW's version for this aspect of the story.


	9. Il Muto'

Author's note:  Nothing to say, except for please r&r.

Disclaimer:  Not mine, probably won't ever be mine, but I can dream about it…

Chapter Nine – 

'Il Muto'

Christine resumes narrative…

I don't know what happened in the hours after my Angel brought me back to my room at the Opéra Populaire.  All I can remember is faintly hearing his voice as he told me that he had to go, that everything would be all right, that I shouldn't worry.  I must have asked him something about when I would see him again, for he had promised that he would be there whenever I needed him.  

And I had been reassured.  

Then, I vaguely recall falling asleep on the chaise lounge in the dressing room after he had left me; it was there that Meg had discovered me.  I had been promptly whisked off to my quarters at the boarding house then by Mme. Giry, who asked not a single question on our way there, and found myself left to the quiet of my rooms.  

That period wouldn't last for long, however, for several days later was the first performance of Albrizzio's 'Il Muto'.  

I had been cast in a silent part by the managers, which had made Carlotta quite happy, in some strange way.  I tried to ignore the overwhelming sense of nervousness and discomfort that I kept feeling about the whole evening as I threaded my way through the wings backstage, trying to find my position.  The curtain would open at any moment for the first act and I had to be ready to go on.  I couldn't let an alien sense of uneasiness throw my concentration off.  I was already in _enough trouble with the managers and Carlotta's roving eye of disdain and unkindness had once more centered on my person.  To risk causing further havoc by refusing to perform would, I knew, be a bad move on my part.  _

And if it wasn't bad enough that _I was uneasy, everyone __else was nervous as well.  The managers, for all their grand smiles and jovial laughter, seemed as if they were on the edge, waiting for something unfortunate to befall them.  The stagehands, the ballet corps, and the actors – everyone – were forever shooting each other furtive, worried glances, as if they were expecting a disaster. _

Little did I know that a disaster really _would occur that evening._

The curtain went up on stage, revealing to the audience an eighteenth-century salon, complete with an elaborate canopy bed that stood center-stage.  Waiting for my cue in the wings, I glanced at Carlotta, who shot me a questioning, haughty glare.  

I quickly averted my gaze.  

She was playing the Countess, one of the main roles in the opera of 'Il Muto', and I was the Countess's maid – who was really named Serafimo, a mute boy whom the Countess was enamored of.  The Countess had disguised her young lover as a maiden to cover up their secret love from the watching eyes of the Countess's fiancé, the Count: a doddering old man.  In the scene that we were preparing to act out, the Countess's servants were discussing their mistress's current _affaire d'amour; later on in the scene, the Count would appear to inform his lovely young fiancée that he…well, I am getting ahead of myself.  Perhaps I should merely continue._

As the music swelled from the orchestra pit, three of the bejeweled servants – two men: a hairdresser and a jeweler, a woman: the Countess's confidante, and Meg, who attended the jeweler – bustled onto the stage.  They, apart from Meg, were all gossiping quite animatedly about the love between the Countess and young Serafimo.  

"They say that this youth has set my Lady's heart aflame!" warbled the powdered and pinched confidante. "His Lordship, sure, would die of shock!" tittered the hairdresser, as the jeweler added, "His Lordship is a laughing stock!" Then, "Should he suspect her," rejoined the confidante, "God protect her!" 

And all three chimed together, as they made their way across the stage to the trio of high-backed, ornate chairs that were already set for them, "This faithless lady's bound for Hades!  Shame!  Shame!  Shame!" 

I recognized my cue and minced onstage, my movements hampered by the restrictive costume and pair of extremely tight, high-heeled shoes that I was wearing.  Quickly, I crossed to center-stage, took off my large, muffin-like, frilly white hat and mimed a kiss-kiss gesture with Carlotta, who was also dressed in a costume appropriate to the era that the opera had been set into.  She beamed at me, her smile flashing in the light and her hazel eyes standing out against the backdrop of white, blue, and pink stage-makeup that she wore.  I could see, however, the malice that hung behind her gaze.  

The scene then commenced.

"Serafimo," Carlotta said, loudly, vivaciously, "Your disguise is perfect!" 

She was about to say more when a loud knock at the door interrupted her.  The Countess turned her head aside, her wig of powdered corkscrew curls whisking over her bare shoulders as she did so, and put on a look of concern.  

"Why who can _this be?" she asked, to which came the slightly muffled reply of, "Gentle lady, admit your loving fiancé." _

The Countess then crossed the stage and opened the makeshift door.  Don Attilio, the old fool, stood outside and she beckoned for him to enter.  I did not see this, as I had turned and hopped up on the tall, counterpane bed, reassuming my part of Serafimo, the maid.  I heard the following dialogue from behind me as I nonchalantly pretended to clean the counterpane with my ostrich-feather duster.

"My love," said Don Attilio to the Countess, "I am called away to England on affairs of State and must leave you with your new maid." He then turned aside and added to the audience, pointing to me as I continued to dust the counterpane, swaying my hips as I did so, "Though I'd happily take the maid with me!" 

The audience chuckled appreciatively at the two-sided joke – not only was the old man rather risqué and faithless himself in saying such things about his lady's maid, but he was also quite hoodwinked, for the young woman whom he thought was so attractive was really a boy.  The Countess turned aside and spoke to her servants.

"The old fool's leaving!"

Then, Don Attilio added, also aside to the audience, "I suspect my young bride is untrue to me.  I shall not leave, but shall hide over there to observe her!" Then he turned to the Countess with an affected, "Addio!" 

She waved to him, replying, "Addio!"

And both said to each other then, "Addio!"

Don Attilio left the stage, pretending to leave, but he really hid and watched the ensuing action.  I climbed down, off of my perch, as Carlotta ran across the stage to me and ripped off the satin and tulle skirt of the Countess's maid to reveal the manly breeches of Serafimo.  We then sat together on the bed, as if it was a couch, as the music swelled once more and Carlotta began her song.

_Serafimo, away with this pretence!_

_You cannot speak, but kiss me in that_

_old man's absence!_

_Poor fool, he makes me laugh!_

_Haha,_

_Haha! etc.___

_Time I tried to get a better better half!_

With that, then, the chorus joined Carlotta and sang with her.

_Poor fool, he doesn't know!_

_Hoho,_

_Hoho,** etc.**___

_If he knew the truth, he'd never, ever go!_

Suddenly, a voice broke in over the music, and the orchestra immediately stopped playing, the violins and woodwinds dying to a half-hearted stop.  

"Did I not instruct that Box Five should be kept _empty?" the voice demanded.  It terrified my very being.  Box Five – the Phantom's seat!  I looked upwards, and then I saw that someone had made a terrible error._

_Raoul sat in Box Five._

My mind began to whirl and I clamped my hands onto the sides of my head, trying to keep myself from teetering on the edge of insanity.  Raoul was sitting in Box Five.  The managers had disobeyed the Phantom – the Phantom, whom no one had ever disobeyed, whose commands were accepted as the ultimate law.  He was, in the end of all things, the lord of the Opéra Populaire.  And they had defied him!  

_He's here: the Phantom of the Opera… _

Everyone looked about himself or herself, somewhat bewildered.  The Phantom's voice had seemed to come out of thin air.  Where _was_ he?  The audience began to murmur and turn in their seats, searching for a glimpse of the strange specter.  Before I knew what I was doing, I heard my own voice entering the void and I couldn't stop myself from speaking my next words.  

"It's him, I know it, it's _him!"_

Carlotta turned on me then, her face white with both rage and fear, and glared at me.  "_Your part is __silent, little toad!" she hissed, grabbing my arm roughly.  I simply stared at her, unable to do anything else.  Far above us, the Phantom had heard her words.  His voice came again, and this time, he seemed to be standing in the flies over our heads.  I turned my gaze upwards to see, as did Carlotta, and I heard her stiff gasp as we both caught sight of him.  _

He was there – in person, above us, standing, watching, _glaring_.

"A _toad_, madame?" 

His tone had changed to one of cool, smooth, complete and dire contempt. 

"Perhaps it is _you who are the _toad_!"_

And with that, he swept into the curtains beyond the grand front façade of the flies, disappearing into the darkness beyond them.  There was another moment of unease.  Then, when it seemed that nothing further would happen, that he was truly gone, Carlotta shot me a venomous look and bustled across the stage to the conductor, who stood, in confusion, awaiting further orders.  They two conferred together for a moment, and then the conductor nodded and signaled the orchestra's attention.  

The music began again and Carlotta resumed her position beside me on the couch-like bed, as she picked up her song at the beginning of the scene.

_Serafimo, away with this pretence!_

_You cannot speak, but kiss me in my_

Croak_!_

Instead of singing, Carlotta had emitted a great croak.  The Phantom had done it.  I didn't know how, but he had.  More perturbing, however, was a new sound—

_The Phantom was laughing!  _

His laugh rippled out of the silence, sounding boyish and mellifluous and teasing, yet there was also an underlying current of something incredibly menacing in it.  For a moment, there was a stunned silence in the theatre and we heard a few half-confused, half-uneasy chuckles from the audience.  

Carlotta's hand flew to her throat and her hazel eyes bulged just ever so slightly as she sat there, in nervous apprehension.  She regained her composure after a moment and went on, once more.

_Poor fool, he makes me laugh!_

_Hahahahaha!_

Croak_, croak__, croak__, _

Croak_, croak__, croak__, croak__, etc._

The Phantom kept on laughing with increasing hysteria as Carlotta continued to croak, more loudly and hoarsely each time.  And then I saw him, standing in the flies – high above the stage – and he wore an expression of open derision and exhilaration at seeing Carlotta so humiliated.  

Suddenly, the chandelier's lights began to blink on and off, flashing in the darkness and lighting our faces with a terrifying glow!  

The Phantom's laughter, by then, was overpowering, and it made a crescendo into a great cry.  "Behold!" he shrieked at last, pointing upwards, "_She is singing to bring down the chandelier!" _

And he began to laugh again, maniacally, as the chandelier began to rock, perilously, on its bolts.  If it were to fall, it would crush to death anyone who stood in its way!  Carlotta, frenzied with terror, turned towards the managers' box and shook her head, her eyes wide and blank, like that of a madwoman.  "_Non __posso più!" she cried, sobbing like a child, "I cannot – I cannot go on!"  _

Then Piangi rushed onstage and gathered the hysterical, shrieking diva into his arms.  "Cara, Cara," he said, in his broken, heavily accented French, "I'm here…is all right…Come…I'm here…" 

And then the Phantom disappeared and the chandelier froze.

Silence filled the theatre.

Both André and Firmin came running onstage, out of breath and flustered.  Meanwhile, Piangi ushered the sobbing Carlotta off the stage, into the wings, and I heard her weeping even as Firmin addressed the audience, trying to restore order.  "Ladies and gentlemen!" he began, and everyone turned back towards him, waiting: each person holding his or her breath in terror and anticipation. 

"The performance shall continue in ten minutes' time…" 

He was addressing Box Five, I noticed, keeping one eye on the chandelier as it returned to its normal, stationary position.

"When the rôle of the Countess will be sung by _Miss Christine Daae." _

I caught myself up on a choke of shock on hearing that announcement and sat back in my seat, feeling my face burn with the heat of a fiery blush.

"In the meantime, ladies and gentlemen," André said, improvising hurriedly, "We shall be giving you the ballet from Act Three of tonight's opera.  Maestro," he said to the conductor, who stood waiting for André to give him the proper cue.  André didn't understand his waiting silence and abruptly became flustered.  

"The ballet!  _Now!"_

The conductor finally understood and he gestured for the orchestra to turn to the respective sheets of music for the ballet segment.  I hurried offstage with the three cast members who had been playing the Countess's servants.  I then collapsed onto a chair that had been left in the wings and let my head fall into my hands as the managers returned to their box, the stagehands cleared the salon scenery, and the ballet chorus – including Meg – danced onstage in their light, ethereal country costumes.  

There was a slight, wooden thump as the background hanging of a sylvan glade dropped in from the flies, Joseph Buquet's work.  I instantly recognized the choreography that the ballet chorus was performing.  It was the Dance of the Country Nymphs.

My mind was occupied elsewhere, however.  

I didn't understand this – what had happened to my Angel?  Before, whenever I had heard his voice, it had comforted me because it was calm, soothing, musical, and gentle, and when I was with him, I felt that I was cherished and wanted and special.  But the man that I had seen as the Phantom of the Opera tonight…I didn't know who he was!  This Phantom was dangerous, cruel, and dark: willing and even _glad_ to frighten and enslave all of those whom he saw as his opponents and potential servants!  He wasn't my Phantom!  _What had happened?  _

Suddenly, something from behind the backdrop caught my eye – movement. Glimpses of a light and a flurry of shadows briefly flashed there, and then all was still again.  Joseph Buquet was the only person who traversed the area behind the wings during a performance…and he never carried any sort of light with him.

Then there was a scream from onstage and total pandemonium erupted, and I saw that the garroted body of Joseph Buquet hung, like a stiff, wooden dummy, in the flies.  

I felt sick.

"Christine!"

_Raoul._

Yes, he was there, running up behind me.  I stood and was about to ask what had happened when he grabbed me, his hand somehow finding mine, and then he was leading – half-guiding, half-dragging – me away from the stage, away from the wings, and out of sight of the stage.  

I looked back, not quite understanding what had just happened.  All I knew was that Joseph Buquet's body hung from the flies, that Raoul had somehow managed to find me, and that the Phantom was nowhere in sight.  

Why didn't he come?  Where was my Angel?

"Come with me – to the roof.  It'll be safe there!" he said, pushing open a door that led to a set of winding steps that were lit by a single torch in the doorway.  I whisked the cloak that he had somehow procured for me around my shoulders and questioned, "Raoul – why?  What has happened?  Why is Buquet—" 

Raoul turned and stared at me, seeming incredulous, as if he was shocked that I didn't already know the answer to my own question.

"The Phantom, Christine – the Phantom – he_ killed Buquet!"_

_No!_

*                       *                       *                       *                       *                       *

The Phantom resumes narrative…

I stared down, in amazement and sudden fear, as policemen, stagehands, reporters, and the two managers all milled about onstage, seemingly at a loss of what to do.  The whole theatre was in an uproar.  Those in the audience were all either hanging curiously about the stage, around the orchestra pit, or running about in total chaos.  I ducked back into the shadows and raced down to the wings, hiding myself in the darkness behind the stage.  Once there, I listened intensely to the manager's conversation with the police.  

And what I heard didn't really shock me.

"It was the Phantom – it absolutely _has to be." Firmin was saying.  He looked quite shaken and very much disturbed. "He kidnapped Christine Daae: sent us a note demanding to have her placed in the part of the Countess in the evening's production, to pay him his salary, and to leave Box Five open, promising that 'a disaster beyond our imaginations would occur' if we didn't obey his commands."_

"He threatened our principal soprano this very night and then he carried his revenge out – by _this!" added André, to the head gendarme.    _

They thought that _I_ had killed Buquet.  

_L__et them think that I had murdered Buquet!_

Suddenly, I remembered Christine.  She had been standing in the wings only moments ago, when the body of the old stagehand had dropped down out of the flies, and now, as I cast about for a sign of her, I saw nothing of my beautiful young protégé.  Then, I looked up to Box Five, remembering that Raoul had been sitting there that evening, in my place.  Instantly, my anger grew ten thousand times worse.

_Raoul wasn't there._

And the door that led to a stairway to the roof that crowned the Opéra Populaire's fabulous front façade was partially opened, revealing a thin stream of torchlight and the path of Christine and Raoul, the Vicomte de Chagny.

Within moments, I had found my way up to the roof and had stepped out into the night air.  It was warm on this August evening.  The stars were shining in the inky blue sky, like tiny, winking diamonds that had been cast into a backdrop more than a thousand miles away, and the moon was just rising: cool, serene, and guileless.  

I felt nothing but cold – cold and harshness.  

Trying to ignore the racing, sickening beat of my pounding heart, I looked down, towards the broad, flat expanse of roof that was accessible to human feet, and saw nothing.  The moon, however, hadn't risen fully and that part of the roof was still cast in darkness, so I couldn't be sure if the pair had gotten there yet.  

I would just have to find out.  

Spotting a perch that I had used many times before, a statue that I could easily stand at the base of, unseen and unheard, I climbed across the roof to it and lowered myself down into its base.  The statue was a golden rendition of '_La __Victoire Ailée'; it was composed of a mass of figures, three women, all gowned in hedonistic, flowing robes, and two bearded, Vulcan-like men that looked more like monsters than humans.  The center woman held a beaded mask aloft in her sculpted gold hands and a pair of wings, perfectly yet effortlessly etched, stretched out from behind her, enveloping and encompassing the entire statue.  I took my position between those two wings and, resting my weight on the sort of ledge that the statues' heads made, gazed down at the roof below me.  Christine and Raoul were there._

_No._

I seemed to have come in on the middle of their conversation, for Raoul was speaking in a low voice to Christine.  Suddenly, my rage and mad sense of jealousy at seeing her with him blinded me to all else, and all I could think of was how dearly the Vicomte would pay for returning to find Christine and taking her away from me.  And _Christine – had she abandoned me?_

Then, the fatal blow was felled.

"Christine, I'll go with you anywhere you want to.  Let me be your shelter, your light, your everything.  Forget your fears – forget this Phantom.  He's just a wraith of your imagination – he doesn't exist !  _I exist, and I want to be with you.  Let me take you away from all the nightmares and unhappy memories that this place has for you – let me be there every time you wake up and everytime you go to sleep.  Christine, __mon amour, do you understand what I'm saying?…I love you."_

And then, as I watched them – as tears began to stream down my face – they kissed.  My heart shattered into a million pieces.

_How could she do this to me?  _

I watched as they hurried off of the roof.

Silence enveloped me.  I was too numb to think for a moment.  She had betrayed me.  She had abandoned my guidance and protection and sought the love of this boy, this handsome young boy who was readily offering her himself and everything he owned, just as I had.  She had rejected me for a handsome young boy.

She had left me – for him.

I was alone.  She had betrayed me.  

"Christine – Christine!  After everything you said to me…after all of that…_this?  How could your heart have become so cold?  Is it true that you can love him and not even think of _me_?  _I_ gave you my music…_I_ made your song take wing!  And now, look how you've repaid me for all I've done for you – you've denied me and betrayed me, sinking into the arms of a boy who can never offer you what I can!  __Christine!" _

I wept then, sobbing her name in agony, turning my face to the sky and letting the moon pour her cold rays down upon my skin.  For once, I – whose very name meant 'all-powerful' – felt utterly helpless.  Raoul's words echoed back to me from the black, abysmal ether of my mind. 

_Forget your fears – forget this Phantom.  He's just a wraith of your imagination…he doesn't exist; I exist, and I want to be with you.  Let me take you away from all the nightmares and unhappy memories that this place has for you – let me be there every time you wake up and everytime you go to sleep.  Christine, mon amour, do you understand me ?…I love you._

The words began to resound in my head, with ruthless, rythmic cadence.

_I love you._

_Forget…forget….forget._

_Doesn't exist._

_A wraith of your imagination._

_I love you._

_Forget._

_I love you._

_I love you._

_I LOVE YOU!_

With a cry, I tore myself away from those black, condemning words.

"_You will curse the day that you rejected your Angel_!"  

Madness whirling in my mind, I wrenched myself away from the statue, ran back inside, and tore down the steps that led into the flies.  The opera had already finished.  

I paid that no heed.  

Instead, I dashed to the edge of the flies and glared down at the stage.  The principal actors in 'Il Muto' had come out to take their bows, and in the center of them all, I saw Christine, conspicuous and terribly, heartwrenchingly beautiful in her Countess costume.  The orchestra, audience, and even the managers were standing in their seats and giving her a standing ovation as she dipped in a graceful swelling curtsey.  

I hated them – all of them.  

My maniacal laughter, frightening to even my own ears, swelled above the sounds of the applause and sent everyone scattering in terror.  I shot a hand towards Christine, pointing straight at her, and the chandelier began to rock, its lights flickering madly on and off.  Then, at my gesture, it descended, swinging more and more madly over the orchestra pit, then hurdling directly towards the stage as screams filled the air.

"_GO!!!"_

At the sound of my voice, the chandelier crashed onto the stage, amidst the cries of the people surrounding the theatre, the boxes, and the stage, and fell at Christine's feet.  I stared at her, my heart void of all feeling then, my gaze fulminating and furious and black, as she stared up at me, with her beautiful blue eyes.

*                       *                       *                       *                       *                       *

Author's note:  Oh dear, now he's mad – and only further violence will result…or will it?  Read on to see…and if you would be so kind, leave me behind a few little reviews, would you?  ^_^


	10. Silence and then the Storm

Author's note:  So here we stand – Erik's really really mad, panic reigns, and this is all what we call a normal day at the Opéra Populaire.

Disclaimer:  Hasn't everybody already read the disclaimers on my other chapters?  Come along now, people: I'm running out of creative ways to state that I don't own this!

Chapter Ten – 

Silence and then the Storm

Christine resumes the narrative…

"Christine, I will stand by and watch no longer!  I am taking you out of Paris – out of _France – tonight!" Raoul exploded as he, André, and Firmin escorted Mme. Firmin and me back to the managers' office.  We were in the hall just outside of the theatre, the doors of which had already been securely locked and barred.  _

_As if that will help any, I reflected, darkly.  Truth to tell, my mind was number than a pair of hands that had been exposed to the cold for too long and I honestly could not think.  I didn't even hear Raoul as he spoke to the managers and me – although, if he __had been saying anything to me, I wouldn't have been able to tell him what I was saying afterwards if it was for my life – so deeply was I absorbed in my thoughts. _

Worse than anything I had ever known before, I knew exactly what had transformed my Angel into an unfeeling tyrant.  He had seen Raoul with me on the roof.  He had seen Raoul with me, he had heard what had been said, and he had seen Raoul kiss me.  But didn't he know that I felt nothing for Raoul?  Didn't he know that it had been Raoul who had kissed me, and that I hadn't even_ wanted for him to kiss me?  Didn't he know—?  _

_And now he wishes me dead._

Raoul, of course, had automatically assumed that because he was handsome, rich, privileged, and urbane, I wouldn't have any doubts about whether I wanted to receive his attention or not.  

I _did.  _

Then, I finally heard the words that he had said out in the hall and broke into his conversation with the managers, abruptly.  

"Wait, Raoul!" 

His undivided attention was instantly mine. 

"Did you say that you were going to make me _leave Paris?  That you were going to make me leave __France?"_

He nodded, seeming to be unconcerned and I ignored the noises in the background of the room that were the gendarmes, who had been ordered by Raoul to stay close to me all night, in order to protect me from the evil, madman Phantom. 

"Yes, my love!  It's not safe for you here!" 

He stepped close to me and scrutinized me with his unbearably blue eyes.  

"I love you, Christine Daae, and I won't have a madman who thinks that he rules the Opéra Populaire dogging you at every turn and trying to murder you.  We are leaving Paris – forever – on the first train available and I shall take you to my family's chalet in Switzerland.  Christine," he said, catching my chin with his hand and making me look at him, "It's the only way."

There was no possible way for me to agree. 

"No, Raoul, it _isn't the only way." I told him, feeling my anger rising.  "You don't know the Phantom – he isn't—"_

"And am I to assume that _you do?" Raoul exploded.  He threw his hands out in the air, an exasperated gesture. "He won't stop until he has you where he wants you to be or until you're dead!  __I personally don't want to think about __either of those options, Christine.  __That is why you're coming with me.  It's for your benefit."_

I regarded him stubbornly, my chin lifted and my eyebrows arched.

"If I survived well enough without your protection before, Raoul, I _think I can manage __now!" _

With that, I walked towards the door, turning my back on them.  Raoul's imperious call after me halted my outward progress.  

"Christine!" he said, and I turned around slightly, pausing.  He came over to me and put his hands on my shoulders, his grip firm and irritating, his gaze boring into my face and reading my eyes. "What will you do if you're _wrong_?"

"I'll just live with it then." I replied and walked away once more.

"Where are you going?" he asked.

I turned around, only once more.  "To my dressing room, to get my things – where else _can I go?" _

And, with that final icy repartee, I stepped out of the room and practically ran up the hall, through several corridors, and down a flight of steps to the dressing room area.  

*                       *                       *                       *                       *                       *

Once I had found my room, I fell up against its door and jerked the handle open, breathing hard as tears pricked my eyes.  And then I was in the darkened, shadowy, silent room, staring at the space ahead of me as my eyes adjusted to the blackness.  

Suddenly, the door swung noiselessly shut.  

"Angel."

He moved out of the shadows and somehow, the lights in the room flickered on, so that we were able to see each other clearly.  I stared into his eyes, his beautiful, mismatched eyes, which seemed to spark and burn towards me, and then I realized that I had just done something _very dangerous_.  In a very low, very quiet, very deadly voice, he said, "Christine, do you realize what you've**_done?" _**

Suddenly, his voice had suddenly escalated from a barely above a whisper to an enraged, inhuman cry, and before I knew what was happening, he had grabbed me by the wrist and whirled me around so that my back hit his torso with vicious force.  If I were to struggle against him, I would only fall.  With the way that he had positioned me, I couldn't make a single move in my own defense, for he was the only thing that could keep me on my feet.  But his grip was cold, vice-like, and harsh.  I only just kept myself from crying out in pain when he wrenched my arm around.  

And that very moment, I realized just how deadly this man was: what things he could be capable of.  His strength was superhuman, his anger insurmountable, and he knew every secret that I could ever have!  

Suddenly, without warning, he gave an unearthly growl and spun me away from him.  Then, still gripping my arm with one hand, he forced me backwards and I saw his other arm make a swift, sharp, terrifying motion.  There was a whooshing sound and then the noise of breaking china and other falling objects as he swept everything off of the top of my dressing table, pushing me up against it as I was borne backwards by the unthinkable, invincible force of his strength.  My eyesight was dimmed in a spinning web of confusion and I looked up, trying to see him.  

He was there: looming, black, and threatening, pinning me to there to the dressing table.  His left hand was clasped around my throat, as if he wished to choke the life out of me, while his right held both of my hands completely imprisoned.  I shook my head, trying to speak and beginning to gasp for air, as he spoke.

"Do you realize what you've just done to me?  After everything I gave you, is _this how you think you're going to repay me?  And all of those things that you told me that morning at the other end of the lake – were all of those things __lies?" _

His eyes took on a fierce, murderous glint, as he demanded, punctuating each word with a jerk of his hand on my neck, "Tell me, Christine!  Tell me what he said to you – I want to hear each and _every word, so that I can have it written on your epitaph.  I want to see your precious Vicomte writhe in agony as he recites them in your requiem after they find you __dead!"_

I shook my head then, my gaze clouded by tears of both pain and sadness, as I looked up at him, brokenly.  "No, Angel…"

" 'No' _what?" he snarled…but then he released me.  He turned around and was silent for a moment, his shoulders bowed and his arms dropped to his sides, as the air burned with his rage.  I remained where I was, unmoving, for a moment, leaning up against the table.  My neck was warm and throbbing, my breath only then returning to me, from their encounter with his hand.  I was afraid to move in that silent moment, afraid to speak, afraid to even _breathe_.  _

Finally, he spoke, breaking the quiet.

" 'No' _what, Christine?" he repeated, and this time, his voice was a soft, deadly murmur. "No, don't carry out my vengeance on you because it isn't your __fault that you were born with a desire to see beauty, because it isn't your __fault that you love Raoul, even when he hasn't given you a single worthwhile thing in your __life?  _Tell me_!" _

He whirled around, rounding on me, his eyes blazing, as his black velvet cloak swirled with his movement, like the wings of a giant bat.  Then, he stepped towards me, until we were almost touching, and his fingers brushed lightly, deftly, mercilessly, at my throat, sending sensations of both rapture and fear up and down my spine.  His blue and green eyes gazed into mine from behind their haze of long, smoky-hued eyelashes.  

"Do you realize," he asked, his voice low and soft, almost alluring, drawing me to him, into his grasp once more as his fingers continued to caress my throat, deceptively gentle.  "How easy it would be for me to _kill you at this moment?"_

"Do _you realize how easy it would be for me to stand here and __let you?" _

My reply seemed to have taken him off-guard.  He stared at me as if he thought me to be a madwoman.  Suddenly, the door slammed open and I heard someone's tremulous, incredibly angry voice call out, "Erik, stop!"

_Erik?_

I was so startled by the use of that name in regard to the Phantom that I almost fainted with shock when I saw whom it was that had spoken.

Mme. Giry.

She stood in the doorway, hands gripping its frame, and her normally flawless, stark black garb and hair was in a wild disarray, as if she had just run all the way here.  I looked back and forth in that single, frozen moment from the Phantom to her, and back to the Phantom again, not able to comprehend what was going on.  Mme. Giry stepped into the room, never once taking her dark eyes – which were snapping with furious anger – off of the Phantom.  He wore a look on his face that was something akin to either barely masked, explosive rage or total surprise that the ballet mistress would so confront him.

Or was it recognition?

But that expression melted away in the next moment, to be replaced by an icy cold, almost sneering twist of his visible features.

"Bravo, Madame – _very_ well done.  Now tell me, is there anything else that you'd like to reveal to Mademoiselle while you're at it, or would you be willing to keep silent and allow us to continue our interrupted conversation?  It's very rude to come barging into rooms where the doors are closed, you know."

Mme. Giry stepped up close to him, and I was unnerved by the closeness of their height.  She had never seemed so imposing before.  Why was she here?  Why was she doing this?  I didn't understand.  It seemed as if _she knew him_!  

Stabbing an accusing finger at him, she snapped, "Don't you dare take that tone of voice with me, you unimaginably spoiled little brat!  I knew that she would be the first on your mind after what happened tonight, but I hadn't any _idea_ that you would actually choose her to be the first to suffer from your insane jealousy!"

"_Jealousy_?" the Phantom snarled at her, stepping away and circling her, circling the room, like a caged panther. "_Spoiled brat_?  How can you call me that?  How _else_ was I supposed to react when she was with that boy?  With him, instead of _me_ – _when I could have given her anything_!"

_Anything!_

Mme. Giry was silent then for a moment, and her silence was very oppressive, and steely.  She moved towards me, but she still didn't take her eyes off of him.  "Christine, my dear," she said, in a strangely calm, flat tone, "Are you hurt?"

"No, Mme. Giry." I replied, mechanically, too distracted by my thoughts to realize what was going on, and then I returned to reality with one swift jerk of my mind. 

"No, he didn't hurt me!  Please, _mon ange." I said, rushing across the room to the Phantom, who now stood beside my dressing table, glaring down at its top.  He looked up at me, sullenly and bitterly, when I came to his side.  "Listen to me." I begged. "Whatever you think, whatever you may have seen or heard, you_ must_ believe me.  There is nothing between Raoul and me – nothing!  He thinks that he's in love with me, and he's led himself to believe that __I love __him.  But you must know that I do__ not feel that love.  _M___on ange, I __cannot love him!"_

The Phantom scoffed a little at that, glaring at me condescendingly.

"Then perhaps you would like to explain the reason why I saw you with him on the roof tonight, mademoiselle, and _why, if you do __not love Monsieur Raoul, you shared a lover's passionate embrace with him?"_

It was my turn to become enraged. 

" '_Shared'?  You complete male chauvinistic blackguard, __he kissed __me!"_

The shock that I saw in his eyes upon hearing my incensed outburst cut me to the quick; the pain in his gaze was too much to bear.  

I took a long breath, calming myself, almost forgetting that Mme. Giry was in the room, watching us, and took both of his hands in mine, gazing up at him, feeling incredibly small but also incredibly powerful.  

"_Mon ange, Raoul told me that he loved me, that he wanted for us to be together forever…and I knew that things could never be that way between us!  I could never feel those sort of affections for him – and I would __never give him permission to kiss me!"_

I stood back and watched as several emotions crossed his face.  

He stepped back from me again, staring at me, as surprise, then shock, then fear, and lastly sadness flitted like inky shadows through his mismatched eyes.  Finally, he looked down, boring holes into the floorboards beneath our feet with his gaze, and his words came up to me through the silent air.

"And the things that I've done – the things that I _would have done – to you…" _

He jerked his head up and our eyes met; he shook his head, seeming as if he were on the verge of an emotional breakdown. 

"Christine, I—"

"Please, _mon ange_." I whispered, reaching for his hand. "Don't."

Something very much like the beginnings of a hesitant, although not-quite-real smile edged onto his face, behind and at the side of the mask.  I wished that I could take it off and unmask him once more, if only to prove my loyalty to everything that I had told him…to everything that I believed in.  I wished that I could _see him once more._

"You're not going to marry Raoul?" he asked.

I shook my head.

"No, Angel – I don't _love him."_

Unsure of myself, I stepped towards him and took his hands in mine again.  _One_ of his hands was almost equal to both of mine, which reminded me how small and insignificant I was compared to him, the master of music, secrets, and darkness.

"_Mon ange, don't ever be concerned of what I feel for Raoul – he's just another man as far as I'm concerned…and I don't love him." _

The Phantom's strange, beautiful eyes watched me from behind the white mask, as if he was trying to read me, to see if my words were really true…and then his fingers moved and gripped mine.  We were silent for a moment.  

"Then…" he said, at length, "I believe you."

He turned, moving to face the other side of the room, and I belatedly recalled that Mme. Giry was still present.  I felt incredibly ashamed at the thought of her having witnessed the scene between the Phantom and myself just then…and suddenly I recalled much more of what had been said only a little while before.  As if guessing my thoughts, he turned back towards me, and smiled wryly, almost apologetically.

"I know, _mon petite_ – there's a lot that you're confused about.  _I'm_ confused by it." 

He reached up with one hand and mussed his golden-brown hair, seemingly at a loss for what to say next. 

"How can I say this with any clarity?  It's all so totally twisted and dark, just like some sort of labyrinth…_Mon petite_, this woman – Mme. Antoinette Giry – has known me all of my life.  She was my mother's best friend."

The floor was uneven in front of me then, and I was vaguely aware of his arm about my waist, gently forcing me to sit down in the dressing table chair.  I tried to regain my grip on my sanity, and finally succeeded in thinking clearly again.

"Mme. Giry, you've known him—"

"All his life?  Yes." Mme. Giry supplied, speaking abruptly.  She appeared to be much more calm by then, and the snapping black fire had gone out of her eyes, making her look more like the strict but sometimes kind ballet mistress that I had always known.  

She looked at the Phantom for a moment then, leaving me to remain where I was, hardly able to believe what I had just been told.  It was all so strange.  I thought that I had known her, and yet…and yet it suddenly explained a great many things – things that I had noticed and yet not paid attention to…

"Erik here has always been a bit on the untamed side, I'm afraid, my dear," she told me, still looking at him as a bit of a dry smile curved her lips. "You see, he never received all of the mother's teaching and love that other children are privileged to."

"Because my widowed mother hated me from the moment that she saw my face on the night that I was born and allowed that hate to fully manifest itself in her relationship to me and because I was kidnapped by a band of circus gypsies and their slaver-driver ringmaster at a rather young and impressionable age." the Phantom supplied, in the same wry, half-amused tone that Mme. Giry had just used. "Or was it because I was simply too smart for my age?"

"It might have been all three of those," she conceded, carefully, "But I think the _real_ problem with that came in when you spent several years as chief-palace-designer and overlord to the Shah of Persia."

"Please, don't bring too much of the past up.  The poor child can't understand everything at once; _no one _could.  Christine,_ mon petite_…"

I looked up to see him kneeling before me, his beautiful eyes staring into mine, and he was smiling, almost hesitantly, it seemed, at me. "I'm sorry that I didn't tell you – and I am even more deeply sorry for doubting you.  I don't want to think that my anger could have so blinded me to everything that I would have hurt you…but it did, and I can't bear to think what I could have done to you." 

Brushing that off – I didn't want him to apologize to me; I knew that he hadn't meant his anger now – I held up a hand and said, "Wait, please.  Don't say anything more about that.  I just want to know who else knows about this."

They both seemed surprised by that.  The Phantom exchanged glances with Mme. Giry, and then he replied, "No one.  No one but you, and me, and Madame."

_More secrets.  Oh black underworlds, this is too much!_

He caught the change of my expression and said, "Mme. Giry helped me when I returned to Paris, after managing to get free of the Shah of Persia, whom I served a very long time ago.  She was always very kind to me when I was a child, unlovable as I was." 

He then smiled dryly, but I saw the inner pain behind the expression.  His own mother…_had hated him_.  I repressed a saddened, chilling shiver as he took my hands in his, gazing searchingly – tenderly – into my eyes.  

"We have never told anyone of this, because if everyone was to know that I was here, people from the past would come to find me, and I would no longer be able to hide from them here.  You…" he hesitated, reaching for my hand to cover it with his. "You understand…don't you?"

I nodded, gazing at him.

"Of course I do, _mon ange_."

He stood, bringing me up with him, and said, "Don't call me only that anymore, Christine.  It is _you _who are the angel, not me.  I am only a man – a ghost, it might be said.  No, you must call me by my _real_ name now."

I smiled up at him.  For all we knew, Raoul and the gendarmes and all of Paris might be headed our way right at this very moment…but I didn't care.

"Then what is it?"

He smiled back at me.

"My real name is Erik."

"Erik." I said, trying out the name on my lips, loving the way that it felt to say it.  I remembered my dreams then.  _Is there a connection?  How could that be?_

"Erik – well, _that's_ a new thought.  The monster has a name!"

_Raoul!_

My worst nightmare was coming true.  Yes, Raoul was standing there – right in behind of us, looming in the doorway, and I could see the terrible expression of mad protectiveness and anger on his handsome young face.  

"Raoul, no, please don't—" I began, but he interrupted me.

"Christine, come over here by me while it's safe.  I'm not going to let this freak hurt you."

"Over my dead body."

The Phantom's voice was cold and contemptuous.  I looked up to his profile and saw the sneer that had come across his face.  _NO! my mind said, as I wished that I could tell them the very same thing.  __No, don't do this! _

Of course, I was unable to stop them, and I knew it.  I looked at Mme. Giry.  She was also paralyzed where she stood, alarm and fear etched into her features.

"Do you have something to say to me, monsieur?" Raoul snapped.

"Yes.  Are you ready to meet your Maker, or will you give the lady her choice?" the Phantom replied, squeezing my hand and then putting it away from him with a gesture for me to stand back.  I couldn't disobey.  

"I'm ready – more than a blackguard like _you is!" Raoul replied. _

"Really?" There was a taunting tone in the Phantom's voice – in _Erik's_ voice. "Then let's go meet Him.  I've got nothing better to do."

And that was what started the confrontation.  

Raoul lunged at the Phantom, knocking them both to the floor.  I heard a scream and thought it was one of them, however, in a moment, I was horrified to discover that it was my own throat that had made the sound.  Over and over and over again they rolled on the floorboards, shoving, swiping, blocking, and tearing at each other like two rival stallions.  I saw the Phantom's face – so handsome that it was blinding, even in the midst of the fray – and I knew, in my heart, that I would die if he were taken away from me.  Raoul's hair tumbled over his face and his features wore a savage, enraged look, as did the Phantom's.  I winced each time I heard the thud of their fists on each other, knowing that each blow was for me.  I didn't want this to happen!  Why couldn't—

Suddenly, I saw something silvery and small in Raoul's hand as it glinted against the candlelight and, horrified, I realized exactly what it was.  My scream of warning didn't reach the Phantom in time, or it did, but it was already too late.  

"No – no, please – _don't!" _

Time seemed to move in slow motion as I ran forward, trying to reach them in time; however, I was doomed to fail, for, by the time I had even gotten two steps towards them, the horrible inevitable had already come to pass.

He had shot my Angel. 

"Raoul, _NO!!!"_

*                       *                       *                       *                       *                       *

Author's note:  Oh, no, what will happen to Erik?  I suppose we all know our dear Victome well enough to state that his aim is always quite abysmal when it comes to injuring our favorite masked man, so don't Punjab me – although the fact that he'll be all right is somewhat obvious, isn't it?  Read on…


	11. Sorrow's Unwilling Captive

Author's note:  The last chapter before the end of Act I, in this, the Phantom's opera…

Disclaimer:  YES, I own them – I own them all!  Ah-hahahahaha!!!  And I own private property on the moon.

Chapter Eleven –

Sorrow's Unwilling Captive

Erik narrates…

An indeterminable time later, I felt my being ebbing back into the world of consciousness and I opened my eyes.  My vision was still blurry and I felt very lethargic, very tired, and very weak.  I heard low, hushed voices nearby me and turned my head, with an effort that I was not accustomed to exerting.  Unsure of myself, for I still couldn't quite see in the shadows, I spoke to the voice that I could most easily recognize.

"Antoinette?"

Suddenly, she was beside me, her dark eyes gazing into mine, and she looked tired and careworn, as if she had just spent a many long hours of worrying.  But over whom?  What had happened?  My memory was hazy.

"Yes, Erik." she replied, her voice soft. "I'm here."

Another face drifted into my line of eyesight and I felt myself start with a jolt of shock and just a bit of irritation.  

"Nadir!" I growled – or tried to.  Somehow my throat and chest wouldn't permit me to make any sound above a weak, pathetic, and raspy whisper.  

Nadir regarded me calmly, his face without expression although his dark eyes were sad.

"Yes, Erik," he said.  "You have been unwell." 

"And how long have I been 'unwell'?" I asked, impatiently; I was beginning to remember a little of what had happened to me.  I really wanted to know how he had come to be here, in my lair, and where Christine now was, but I couldn't ask that yet.

"Almost a week." 

Mme. Giry had been helping me sit up and I thought that I had almost mastered the feat when I heard his words.  I fell back, stiffening in shock, and was grateful for the presence of the pillows behind me.  _Almost a week!  _

The phrase did something strange, something _unnerving, to my mind.  Without even thinking about it, I ran my hands through my hair, feeling the coarse reality of its brown thickness, and saw nothing but the blankness of my own whirling mind for a moment.  Realizing that they were still there, I looked up, to Nadir, who was sitting, waiting for me to speak.  "What happened?" I asked._

His eyebrows lifted slightly.  "You don't remember?"

I glared at him.  "Were you _expecting me to?"_

Mme. Giry shot me a 'behave yourself' look that was full of warning; in spite of the fact that I was her employer of sorts, she had always taken the role of a mother in my life, and, much as I sometimes despised this, I usually humored her, and spared myself the annoyance of her lecturing, by obeying.  Nadir ignored my snappishness, and, with an air of complacent serenity, he sat back in his chair – both he and Mme. Giry were seated, only he had placed a chair beside the bed, while she was sitting at my side – and made a steeple of his fingers, staring at them for a few moments.  Then, he leaned forward and explained all.  

"You were badly injured in a struggle against a certain opponent of yours, one Vicomte de Chagny – Raoul.  He shot you."

I nodded, not saying anything.

"I arrived on the scene shortly after the incident to find you unconscious, with your very concerned friend and a sobbing Mademoiselle Daae hovering about you, while a guilt-ridden and terrified Vicomte de Chagny tried vainly to pull her away from your limp, unresponsive body.  I helped the Vicomte bring the young lady away, and then I, together with Madame, was able to find our way down here, so that we could take care of you.  However, _unfortunately, you fell into a fever brought on by your wound and the subsequent loss of blood that you suffered, and we spent a few harrowing hours.  You shouldn't have worried us so, my friend."_

I swung my head to face him, narrowing my eyes a little.

"If _that is the price I must pay…" _

But then I suddenly felt very tired and very weak all over again, and I let my head fall back against the pillows as I closed my eyes, shutting out everything beyond them. 

"I must thank you, however _reluctantly_, Daroga…although I don't quite know if I should really be thanking you or berating you for coming here."

He smiled at me in his completely irking way and turned to leave.  

"The fact that you said those words is enough for me, my friend." 

He had made his exit before I could respond and the door closed silently behind him, the handle making a soft click in the silence that had filled the room.  I turned to Mme. Giry then, irritably.  "_Why_ did we let him come here?"

"I'm sorry, Erik," she said. "But he said that he was the only way you'd survive – that if I tried to save you myself, I would fail."

I sighed, giving in to this.  I really didn't feel like arguing, for once.

"Where is Christine?"

She was silent for a moment, and then she replied, "At the Paris abode of the de Chagny family – Raoul's house in town."

"Ah, not too hard to find then." I said, lightly, and she finally looked up then, alarm written on her face.  I groaned inwardly, knowing what was coming next.

"Erik, no!  Please, try to think about this.  I know how you feel about her – you've been in love with her ever since you laid eyes on her," It was true; I wouldn't deny her words, "but try to consider – the de Chagny family is very powerful.  If you—"

"And _I_ am powerful as _well_, dearest guardian of mine." I replied, narrowing my eyes and hearing my voice become cold, hard, and steely.  

The mere thought of Christine in the clutches of that stupid, that worthless and utterly senseless boy, who was fool enough to think that she loved him made my every sense smart with the insult of the whole situation.  With the pain of the thought of losing her.  I shook my head, refusing to give in to that thought and become sorrow's unwilling captive.  I loved Christine, and I always would, until the day I died.  I didn't expect her to return that love; in fact, I intended to never tell her of it.  She could know of my past and anything else that she might wonder about, but I would never reveal my love, for it was hopeless.  But I would never give her up to an idiot like Raoul either.  That much I knew.

Then I continued, my tone like ice.

"I am the Phantom of the Opera, and no one will stand between me and that which I desire.  If Raoul thinks that he can drive me out of Christine's life by killing me, he's about to learn that I'm more of an undead, haunting spirit than he thought."

She closed her eyes slowly, and I knew that she had realized that pleading with me, reasoning with me even, would never work to change my mind.  It wouldn't – she was wise to give up before she had even truly started.

"Then what will you do?" she asked.

I shrugged.

"What will I do?  Make every effort, pull out all the stops and cross every boundary that I can in order to bring her back.  I _won't_ give her up.  I've already told her that I'll always be there, to guide her and teach her.  As soon as I'm well, I'm going to find her…somehow."  

We were silent for a few moments longer, and then I tried to sit up.  A pain in my left shoulder flared up violently and I winced.  

"Um…oh.  Ow.  I hadn't felt _that before." I commented, biting the inside of my lip as my mother moved to help me.  I couldn't believe the damage that that boy had been able to inflict on me.  I should have seen it coming.  __So that's it – I'm an idiot, I thought.  _

"Erik, take off your shirt.  I'll need to change the dressing on your wound."

I obeyed as she stood and went to retrieve some gauze and some other items from the table that stood beside my bed.  When she turned back around, I had just finished lifting my white silk nightshirt over my head.  She took it and placed it at the foot of the bed, then tore off some gauze as I once again attempted to make myself comfortable. 

"What does darling little Meg think that you've been doing every night now since the 'Il Muto' disaster?" I inquired.  I had never known my guardian's daughter, who had been born long after I had left France – had I been blessed with a normal face, I might have known her all of her life as her mother had known me.  My mother might not have hated me as she had.  Ah, my life.  

"Meg has gone to live with Christine.  Raoul saw that she was so distraught after what he had done that he felt compelled by decency—"

"As if he could _have_ such a thing." I muttered, under my breath. "_Ow_!  Do you think that you could pull on that bloody thing a bit _harder_, perhaps?" She was just finishing the last touches on my new bandage.

"He felt compelled by decency," she repeated, "To lighten her grief by inviting her best friend, the only person whom he thought could bring her solace, to come and live with her.  Now you see that I'm practically torn between you two – you, who have practically become my son over these long years, and my own blood daughter.  Christine has loved Meg as her sister and best friend for all of her life, but now she has someone else in her life – you."

"Flattered as I am that you consider me a sort of son to you, I won't have you disillusioning yourself about what I am to Christine.  She will _never_ know of how I feel about her.  I won't tell her.  Even if she _can_ say that she can stand my face, and even if she likes to be here, with me, I can't ask her to love me.  I can't expect that.  Look at me."

"I _do_, Erik." she said, and stood, eyeing me closely, looking over her work. "It'll be at least another two days before you can get out of bed and move around again.  Then nothing – not even I – will be able to stop you."

"_Two days?" I complained, wondering what on earth I was going to do with myself, stuck in my room for that long. "How can you be so cruel?"_

"In order to be kind," she said.

"And I suppose that I should be polite and say, '_Merci __beaucoup and I owe you for saving my life, Aunt Antoinette dearest, and just be done with it?"_

She smiled, wryly.

"But of course, Monsieur Erik."

I groaned, rolling my eyes begrudgingly.

"This is going to be a long two days."

She then left the room, and I gingerly turned back over and sank gratefully into the mound of pillows that were behind me.  I glanced at my room.  

It was silent – silent and cold as a grave.  That is what it would be, one day, when my life no longer meant anything as far as time was concerned.  The entire lair would be one gigantic tomb, and perhaps someday, somewhere far off in the distant future, someone would come along and discover it, and say, "This was where the Phantom of the Opera lived…and died."  I really couldn't hope for anything more.

I wanted Christine back.  I wanted her so badly.  

She had already begun to do things – to change me in ways that I hadn't thought possible.  How long had I believed that I could never endure human touch, the contact of another sentient being's hand?  And how long had it taken for me to totally give in and even desire her touch?  It was just one of the many ways that she had effected me.

I would bring her back.

There was no stopping it.  

*                       *                       *                       *                       *                       *

Author's note:  The end of Act I.  Act II coming soon!


End file.
